I  K  v:'f  r\ 


H.C.CHATFIELD-TAYLOR 


In  a. moment  of  devilry 


FAME'S  PATHWAY 


A   ROMANCE   OF  A    GENIUS 


BY 


H.   C.  jCHATFIELD  -TAYLOR 


ILLUSTRATIONS  BY  "JoB" 


NEW     YORK 

DUFFIELD    &    COMPANY 

1909 


COPYRIGHT,  1009,  BY 
DUFFIELD  &  COMPANY 


AU  Eights,  Including  those  of  Dramatisation 
and  Translation,  Strictly  £f served. 


THE   PKEMIEK  PRBS3 
NEW  YORK 


C39Zf 


CONTENTS 

BOOK    THE    FIRST 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

I.     AGAINST   A   PAINTED   SCENE        ...  3 

II.     A  RAY  OF  SUNLIGHT            .        .        .        .  12 

III.     AT   THE    SERVICE-TREE    TAVERN        .        .  20 

IV.     A  SALON   OF   VAGABONDIA          ...  30 

V.     AN  HOUR  OF  PARADISE        ....  41 

VI.     A  BEING  DIFFERENT  FROM  THE  REST       .  51 

VII.     A  DAY  FOR  JOYOUSNESS       ....  58 

VIII.     THE  MAGIC  ISLE 69 

IX.     A  FOOL'S  PARADISE 76 

X.     TEMPERED  BLISS              .              ...  87 

BOOK  THE  SECOND 

I.  THE  KING'S  HIGHWAY  ....     99 

II.  FOREST   ADVENTURES  .        .        .        .109 

III.  HONEST  LAUGHTER 118 

IV.  TRINETTE  DRAWS  A  WEAPON  .        .129 

V.  A  NEW  DOMAIN  138 

VI.  FOND  DREAMS  REALISED  .         .         .148 

VII.  THE  SALLOW  LAWYER          .         .         .        .160 

VIII.  PARIS   DEBONAIR 170 

IX.  KING  PETAUD'S   COURT         .         .         .         .177 


CONTENTS 

CHAFTEB  PAGE 

X.  GRIEFS  AND  CONSOLATIONS          .        .        .188 

XI.  WITH  DRUM  AND  TRUMPET       .        .        .199 

XII.  THE  DEBUT 207 

XIII.  EXIT  TRINETTE             21 6 

BOOK  THE  THIRD 

I.  THE  TOILS  OF  USURY          ....  227 

II.  THE  ANONYMOUS  NOTE        ....  237 

III.  TRINETTE  RE-ENTERS           ....  244 

IV.  MADELEINE  LIES  GLIBLY    ....  254 

V.  RENARD'S  GARDEN 263 

VI.  THE  SACRISTY  OF  ST.  EUSTACHE      .        .  271 

VII.  CATHERINE  BOURGEOIS  SPEAKS  HER  MIND  282 

VIII.  IN  THE  LAND  OF  THE  BLIND       ,        .        .  293 

IX.  THE  DEVIL'S  OWN 301 

X.  IN  THE  KING'S  NAME         .        .        .        .311 

XI.  THE  AWAKENING 320 

XII.  THE  SIN  OF  YOUTH 328 

XIII.  THE  WAY  Is  LONG                                      .  337 


ILLUSTRATIONS 

IN  A  MOMENT  OP  DEVILRY     .        .        .        Frontispiece 

FACING  PAGE 

"  You  ARE  NOT  CAST  TO  PLAY  THE  FOOL  "  .  10 
A  WILD  ROUT  BURST  INTO  THE  ROOM  .  .  26 

A  FAINT  BURST  OF  APPLAUSE  CAME  FROM  THE 

LIPS  OF  THE  ACTRESSES 46 

A  PLACE  FOR  IDLE  THOUGHTS  AND  DREAMING  .  66 
THE  UPSETTING  OF  ONE  MORE  GENIUS  .  .100 
"A  SCALDED  CAT  FEARS  COLD  WATER"  .  .134 
MOLIERE'S  HEART  THRILLED  WITH  AWE  .  .164 
"  BY  SAINT  GENEST,  I'LL  NOT  FLEE  LIKE  A 

COWARD/'  HE  SHOUTED  .  .  .  .214 

HER  HEART  WAS  OPPRESSED,  HER  SPIRIT  ALMOST 

GONE  262 

His  EYES  REFUSED  THEIR  OFFICE  .  .  .  278 
MOLIERE,  STEPPING  FROM  BEHIND  THE  CURTAIN, 

SEIZED  HER          ....  304 


BOOK    THE    FIRST 

"  A    fellow   named  Moliere   left   the   benches   of  the 
Sorbonne  to  follow  Madeleine  Bejart" 

— TALLEMANT  DES  REAUX. 


"  On  n'execute  pas  tout  ce  qui  se  propose ; 
Et  le  chemin  est  long  du  projet  a  la  chose." 
— Le  Tartu ffe,  III-l. 


FAME'S  PATHWAY 

CHAPTER    I 

AGAINST   A   PAINTED    SCENE 

IT  was  a  fateful  moment  when  their  glances  met — 
Madeleine  Bejart  standing  up  to  her  full  height,  bare- 
armed,  gracefully  formed,  radiant,  and  tall;  Jean-Bap- 
tiste  Poquelin,  student  of  the  laws,  a-tremble  and 
blushing.  She  saw  a  thick-lipped  youth,  and  she  would 
not  have  looked  again  but  for  the  godlike  eyes;  in  the 
glare  of  the  candles,  he  saw  a  face  white  and  beautiful 
against  the  red-gold  hair,  and  love  leaped  to  his  heart — 
the  ardent  love  of  youth.  The  crown  upon  her  splendid 
head  was  tinsel;  the  jewels  on  her  breast  were  glass; 
but  the  candid  blue  eyes  were  real,  he  knew,  and  so  were 
the  curving  lips. 

The  theatre  was  but  a  tennis-court;  the  stage,  rough 
planks  athwart  rude  trestles;  the  scenery,  a  strip  of 
painted  cloth.  Dull  louts  stood  gaping  in  the  pit;  bour 
geois  housewives  munched  oranges  within  the  tawdry 
boxes;  but,  had  she  played  to  king  and  cardinal,  she 
could  not  have  been  one  whit  more  a  girl  to  be  adored. 
There  may  have  been  some  in  that  city  of  Paris  whose 
charms  were  equal  to  hers,  but  Jean-Baptiste  made  cer 
tain  there  were  none. 

"  One  would  think  you  had  never  seen  a  pretty  ac 
tress,"  said  the  friend  who  stood  beside  him — Claude 
Chapelle,  young  lover  of  the  joys  of  life  and  poesy. 
•     "  I  have  never  seen  such  an  one,"  he  answered  with 
a  sigh. 

"  One  would  think  you  were  in  love." 


4  FAME'S    PATHWAY 

"  I  am." 

Chapelle  shrugged.  To  him,  the  painted  lips  were 
as  false  as  the  jewels. 

Jean-Baptiste  was  silent  also.  To  tread  the  stage, 
and  by  a  gesture  or  the  modulation  of  a  word  be  knave 
or  king,  had  been  his  dream;  to  hold  her  in  his  arms 
and  speak  the  lines  that  ranting  lover  mouthed  so 
badly  were  unrepented  happiness,  he  thought.  Her 
eyes  burned  through  him,  her  breast  was  like  white 
marble  in  the  sunlight;  small  wonder  he  did  not  quell 
the  fire  within  his  heart,  since  he  made  no  effort. 

Seated  beside  the  sad-eyed  poet  with  the  prompt 
book,  he  saw  a  cavalier,  curled  and  bewigged,  with 
laces  and  starched  linen,  and  ribbons  where  his  boot- 
hose  met  his  small-clothes — a  cavalier,  with  plumed  hat, 
cloak,  and  rapier — gazing  at  her  from  his  seat  upon  the 
stage.  He  saw  possession  in  his  sneer,  a  look  of  surfeit 
in  his  cruel  eyes ;  and  then  the  curtain  closed  them  both 
from  view,  while  cadaverous  fiddlers  bowed  their  wheezy 
violins  and  the  crowd  applauded. 

"  Oranges !  Tisane !  "  shrilled  a  girl  with  baskets 
on  her  dimpled  arms.  "  Oranges !  Tisane !  "  rang  her 
cries  above  the  squeaking  of  the  fiddles. 

The  thin,  bent,  shambling  candle-snuffer  trimmed  the 
smudging  wicks;  swains  in  the  pit  ogled  ruddy  beauties 
in  the  boxes;  matrons  yawned;  opulent  burghers 
stretched  their  legs;  and  meantime,  Claude  Chapelle 
bought  tisane  of  the  Hebe  and  pinched  her  pretty 
cheeks. 

"  Morbleu ! "  he  said,  when  he  and  Poquelin  had 
drained  their  glasses  and  the  girl  had  courtesied  thanks., 
"  you  may  fancy  these  fat  bourgeoises,  but  I  prefer  the 
perfumed  ladies  of  the  Hotel  de  Bourgogne. " 


AGAINST    A   PAINTED    SCENE  5 

His  companion's  eyes  flashed.  "  The  Hotel  de  Bour- 
gogne,"  he  answered  with  asperity,  "  where  fashion 
flocks  and  Montfleury  rants." 

"Which  means,"  said  Chapelle,  curling  his  incipient 
moustache,  "  that  a  red-haired  divinity  with  her  light 
hidden  under  a  suburban  bushel  is  the  greatest  actress 
in  France!  Alas,  you  have  a  rival;  else  why  that  fine 
noble  with  a  seat  upon  the  stage  ?  " 

Jean-Baptiste  had  sparks  of  fire  in  his  dark  eyes, 
but  he  beat  back  the  angry  torrent  rising  in  his  heart. 

"  Since  the  day  when  the  crowds  flocking  to  see  '  The 
Cid '  were  so  great  that  the  actors  of  the  Marais  were 
forced  to  place  seats  upon  the  stage,  every  jackanapes 
feels  it  is  his  right  to  sit  there  and  comb  his  wig,  while 
art  languishes  and  the  pit  groans." 

"  Jealousy,  my  dear  fellow,  j  ealousy !  Now  if  you 
were  a  fine  noble  upon  a  rush-seat  chair " 

"  Instead  of  the  humble  son  of  an  upholsterer  upon 
his  legs,"  sighed  the  other  wearily,  "  my  toes  might  ache 
less,  perhaps,  but  my  heart  no  more."  His  eyes  were 
fixed  upon  the  curtain  and  yearned  to  see  beyond;  but 
his  friend  laughed  outright. 

"  Why,  you  have  not  even  met  La  Bej  art ! " 

"  I  hope  I  never  shall,"  Jean-Baptiste  sighed. 

The  crowd  in  the  pit — tradesmen,  artisans,  cut- 
purses,  and  valets — bumped  shoulders  with  the  two 
young  friends:  the  crowd  of  gesturing,  laughing  citi 
zens  in  the  days  when  Louis,  destined  to  be  called  the 
grand  monarch,  was  only  a  child,  and  Richelieu  was 
dying:  the  golden  days  before  the  turbulent  Fronde. 

"Woman  is  the  vice  of  all  mankind,"  said  Chapelle, 
after  a  moment's  thought.  "  On  the  subject  we'll  agree, 
if  not  upon  the  object." 


6  FAME'S   PATHWAY 

For  a  moment  the  young  student  of  the  laws  looked 
at  him  searchingly,  wondering  if  the  cynicism  were 
sincere  or  merely  banter.  "  We  never  agreed  upon  phil 
osophy,"  he  said  finally;  "why  should  we  about 
women  ?  " 

"Philosophy!"  scoffed  Chapelle;  "that  takes  me 
back  to  Gassendi's  dull  lectures." 

"  Ah,  remember !  "  cried  his  friend  in  protest,  "  he 
told  us  the  lot  of  a  man  of  letters  is  the  best  in  the 
world;  he  told  us  that  beautful  poems,  learned  and  re 
cited  daily,  elevate  the  mind,  ennoble  the  style  of  those 
who  write,  and  inspire  noble  sentiments.  Dear  old 
Gassendi!  His  scholastic  lectures  may  have  been  dull, 
but  he  taught  me  to  love  Lucretius." 

Chapelle  shook  his  fine  curls.  "  Pouf ! "  he  exclaimed. 
"  You  live  as  much  in  the  air  as  crazy,  quarrelling 
Cyrano  de  Bergerac." 

The  words  recalled  to  Jean-Baptiste  a  spadassin  with 
tumid  nose  who  rhymed  and  fenced  with  equal  grace, 
and  the  time  when  they  had  been  students  of  Gassendi — 
Chapelle,  Cyrano,  and  he.  But  three  dull  knocks  upon 
the  stage  set  his  young  heart  fluttering.  The  crooning 
of  the  fiddles  ceased;  the  shuffling  feet  grew  still;  the 
curtain  parted;  and  he  saw  her  in  the  candle  glare 
again — all  white  against  the  dark,  till  the  light  caught 
her  loosened  hair  and  framed  her  face  with  gold.  Her 
eyes  were  soft  as  star-shine;  she  seemed  to  step  like 
pliant  Artemis;  the  words  she  spoke  as  Dido  to  JEneas 
seemed  spoken  to  himself,  so  it  pleased  him  to  dream: 

"To  adore  thee  as  my  god,  ah,  dearest,  let  me  swear; 
To  serve  for  ever  as  thy  slave  would  be  my  chosen  part. 
Ah,  never  let  me  leave  thy  loving  eyes,  dear  heart — 
Wilt  thou  not  promise?" 


AGAINST   A   PAINTED    SCENE  7 

But  while  he  dreamed,  his  eyes  fell  on  the  sneering  noble 
with  a  seat  upon  the  stage. 

"  If  only  hate  could  kill,"  he  thought,  gazing  at  the 
cavalier  from  under  his  dark  brows,  until  behind  him  he 
heard  a  scuffle,  shouts,  and  a  deafening  din.  Turning, 
he  saw  two  swaggering  ruffians  tumble  the  porter  from 
the  door. 

"  King's  Musketeers  do  not  pay ;  way  for  the  King's 
Musketeers !  "  And  to  bacchanalian  cries  and  laughter, 
two  royal  rogues  with  rapiers  drawn  swept  tradesmen, 
artisans,  and  valets  to  the  wall.  One  beat  a  dissonant 
tattoo  upon  a  warming-pan;  the  other  caught  the  plump 
serving  girl  beneath  his  arm  and  carried  her  kicking, 
screaming,  in  the  air.  "Musketeers!  "  the  cry;  conster 
nation  on  the  faces  of  the  crowd;  above  the  crash  of 
breaking  bottles,  and  the  pounding  of  the  sword  hilt  on 
the  pan,  shouts  of  drunken  revelry  and  song.  Singing, 
staggering,  the  roisterers  marched  in  triumph  round 
the  pit;  churls  tumbled  to  the  floor,  actors  trembled  in 
their  buskins. 

Alone  in  the  centre  of  the  stage  stood  Madeleine 
Bejart.  Jean-Baptiste  saw  her  brave  and  unmoved, 
her  cheeks  aglow,  her  lips  half  parted.  In  ecstasy  he 
watched  her  until  she  tried  to  speak  above  the  din. 

"  Messieurs !  "  she  cried.  "  Messieurs !  "  But  the 
drunken  soldier  beat  upon  his  copper  drum  and  drowned 
her  voice.  Proud  and  erect,  with  eyes  flashing  and 
head  thrown  back,  she  faced  him.  Above  the  tumult 
her  voice  rang  clear: 

"  Messieurs !  A  farce,  a  tragedy,  what  you  will,  but 
let  the  performance  proceed." 

The  reeling  musketeers  saw  her  white  breast  in  the 
candle  light,  the  glistening  teeth  between  her  lips. 


8  FAME'S    PATHWAY 

"  Not  11  I've  had  a  kiss !  "  cried  one  of  them,  with 
thick-tongued  ardour,  and  staggered  toward  the  stage. 

Jean-Bap tiste  paled  at  his  evil  smile,  the  leer  in  his 
bestial  eyes. 

"  Stop !  "  he  cried,  "  stop !  "  Frantic  with  rage,  he 
sprang  toward  him. 

Chapelle  caught  his  arm. 

"You  are  unarmed;  would  you  fight  two  swash 
bucklers  ?  " — words  not  even  heard,  much  less  listened 
to. 

"  Let  me  go ! "  he  shouted,  "  let  me  go !  "  and,  with 
young  blood  singing  in  his  veins,  he  broke  from 
Chapelle's  grasp.  "  Coward !  "  he  cried  to  the  muske 
teer,  "  you  disgrace  the  king's  livery.  Shame ! 
Shame !  " 

With  frightened  eyes,  Madeleine  Bejart  saw  the 
soldier  turn  upon  the  frantic  youth,  both  joy  and  fear 
trembling  in  her  breast.  When  a  rapier  pointed  at  her 
unknown  champion,  her  heart  gave  a  wild  throb  of 
terror;  she  covered  her  face  with  her  hands. 

A  hot-headed  youth  ready  for  baiting — sport  for  a 
tipsy  musketeer — sport  for  the  rabble  to  see.  A  foil 
to  prick  Jean-Baptiste  Poquelin  until  he  danced  a 
farandole  of  pain;  another  to  flash  from  its  sheath,  for 
the  courtier,  seated  on  the  stage,  wigged  and  curled  but 
swordsman  born,  sprang  into  the  pit:  then  the  click  of 
sword  to  sword.  When  Madeleine  Bejart  had  the 
courage  to  look,  she  saw  her  headstrong  champion 
dragged  away  by  his  friend;  and,  in  his  place,  a  lithe, 
skilled  fencer  with  rapier  at  guard  and  arm  upcurled. 

The  other  musketeer  rushed  to  help  his  comrade,  the 
crowd  having  courage  now  to  form  a  ring  and  stare  in 
breathless  wonder  while  two  bravos  faced  a  perfumed 


AGAINST    A   PAINTED    SCENE  9 

darling  of  the  court.  Feint,  parry,  thrust,  a  turn  of  a 
supple  wrist — a  sword  arm  rapierless.  Swish,  clash, 
and  ring  of  steel — and  then  a  panting  musketeer  beaten 
backward,  step  by  step,  while  his  comrade  groped  on 
hands  and  knees  to  find  his  weapon.  Rapiers  swirled, 
sparks  flew  from  glinting  steel;  a  wild-eyed  bully 
tripped  upon  another  in  his  rage  to  reach  a  dexterous 
fencer;  a  defence  too  puling,  though,  even  to  force  a 
quickened  breath  from  beneath  a  curled  moustache. 
Two  disarmed  swashbucklers,  blinded  by  the  fumes  of 
drink,  soon  lay  sprawling  on  the  floor;  and,  since  the 
conqueror  preferred  finesse  to  surgery,  not  so  much  as 
one  sword  prick  to  either. 

The  vanquished  floundered  to  their  feet,  picked  up 
their  weapons,  and  slunk  away  amid  laughter  and  jeers. 
The  nobleman  sheathed  his  sword.  "  Pardi,  a  rather 
stupid  bout ! "  he  said  with  condescension,  for  the 
benefit  of  the  common  herd.  "  But  where  is  my  fiery 
young  friend  ?  " 

Jean-Baptiste's  blood  had  cooled  somewhat.  He  knew 
he  owed  a  sound  skin,  if  not  his  life,  to  splendid  swords 
manship,  and,  in  payment  of  a  debt,  a  generous  heart 
can  turn  its  hate  to  gratitude;  so  he  ran  forward 
blindly  and,  kneeling,  seized  the  courtier's  hand. 

"  Ah,  seigneur,"  he  cried,  "  how  can  I  find  words  to 
thank  you?  " 

The  noble  drew  his  white  gloved  hand  away,  shaking 
the  frills  and  laces  of  his  cuff  as  if  he  feared  too  much 
ardour  might  rumple  them.  "  Young  hot-head,"  he  said 
with  a  supercilious  drawl,  "  gratitude  is  but  a  courtier's 
claim  to  a  sovereign's  grace ;  in  other  words,  a  hope  dis 
guised.  As  I  am  not  the  king,  and,  judging  by  your 
dress,  you  are  but  a  bourgeois,  we  '11  dispense  with  it." 


10  FAME'S    PATHWAY 

A  blush  crimsoned  the  student's  face.  A  blow  could 
not  have  hurt  him  more.  "  Beneath  a  modest  coat,  a 
lavish  heart/'  he  answered,  when  he  could  find  breath 
to  speak:  "  the  reverse  at  court,  I  see." 

The  courtier  shrugged;  in  his  eyes  a  hue  of  steel. 

"  Don't  quarrel,  fellow,  until  you  wear  a  sword ; 
don't  champion  ladies  until  you  possess  their  favour." 
Having  said  this  he  turned  upon  his  heel. 

With  hot  cheeks  and  a  surging  heart,  Jean-Baptiste 
watched  his  proud  enemy  sweep  a  feathered  hat  upon  his 
curls  and  stride  away — watched  until,  above  the  heads  of 
the  crowd,  he  saw  but  one  white  plume.  "  Caste," 
he  sighed,  "  inexorable  caste !  Ah,  but  there  is  a  way  to 
reach  the  stars  and  then  outshine  a  sputtering  candle 
in  a  golden  stick !  "  His  face  took  on  a  look  of  deter 
mined  hardness  then,  and  he  turned  away.  Uncon 
sciously  he  glanced  to  the  stage.  Slender  and 
beautiful,  Madeleine  Bejart  stood  there,  a  lonely  shape 
against  a  painted  scene.  "  Humiliated !  "  he  thought, 
"  insulted !  My  life  tossed  to  me  like  a  copper  to  a 
beggar,  and  not  one  look,  even  of  pity!"  Thoughts  of 
vengeance  filled  his  heart — wild  vengeance  in  a  hundred 
insufficient  ways; — when  some  one  touched  his  shoulder, 
and,  turning,  he  saw  a  thin-faced  actor  in  the  toga  and 
feathered  helmet  which  served  to  costume  Greek  and 
Roman  then,  and  even  Gaul. 

"  P-p-pardon,  monsieur,"  he  said,  being  a  stutterer 
born,  "  I  am  J-J- Joseph  Bejart,  and  my  sister  would 
have  w-w-word  with  you." 

A  quicker  thrill  than  the  actor's  speech  could  incite 
made  him  look  toward  the  stage.  He  watched  the  sweet 
curve  of  her  face,  until — it  must  have  been  to  his  burn 
ing  glance — she  turned.  Their  eyes  met  then  and 


"  You  are   not  cast  to   play   the   tool 


AGAINST    A   PAINTED    SCENE         11 

stayed  together  while  the  thin-faced  actor  led  him, 
tremulous,  to  the  stage. 

"  You  would  have  fought  for  me,"  she  said,  when  he 
stood  before  her. 

What  revelation  of  his  love  was  in  his  gaze  he  knew 
not,  but  the  too  inadequate  words  he  tried  to  frame 
refused  to  pass  his  lips,  and  he  could  only  mumble  in  an 
inarticulate  way: 

"  I  would  have  died  for  you." 

"  On  with  the  tragedy !  "  called  a  hoarse  voice  from 
the  wings. 

"  Come,"  said  Chapelle  at  his  elbow,  "  you  are  not 
cast  to  play  the  fool." 


CHAPTER  II 

A   RAY   OF    SUNLIGHT 

IN  a  corner  littered  with  theatrical  apparel,  Madeleine 
Bejart  stood  arranging  her  tumbled  hair.  Players  of 
both  sexes  shared  this  dingy  spot;  tiring  room  seems  too 
sumptuous  a  term,  a  quilt  stretched  upon  a  cord  sufficing 
to  screen  the  over-modest.  The  soubrette,  Marie 
Courtin  de  la  Dehors,  a  black-eyed  comfit  of  pink  flesh, 
sat  upon  a  bench  swinging  one  shapely  leg  across  the 
other  while  putting  on  a  stocking;  Genevieve,  a  sprightly 
younger  sister  of  La  Bejart,  reached  a  plump  arm  from 
behind  the  quilt  to  snatch  a  garment  from  a  pile  of  time- 
worn  finery.  With  much  ado  of  splashing,  the  young 
ster  who  played  lovers'  parts,  plunged  his  pretty  face 
in  a  cracked  earthen  bowl;  the  meanwhile,  Jean-Baptiste 
de  1'Hermite,  husband  of  the  soubrette,  Beys,  a  bibulous 
poet,  and  Joseph  Bejart,  the  stutterer,  squatting  upon 
the  floor,  arranged  the  day's  receipts  in  little  piles  of 
silver  livres  and  copper  sous. 

Looking  askance  at  the  meagre  lots,  Joseph  Bejart 
shrugged  his  lean  shoulders. 

"  Only  t-t-twenty-four  livres  and  f-f-fifteen  sous," 
he  stammered,  with  a  whistle  to  accelerate  the  faltering. 

Though  great  of  name,  moustache,  and  sword,  Jean- 
Baptiste  de  1'Hermite — gentleman  born  but  vagabond 
bred — was  scant  of  purse,  so  he  gazed  hungrily  at  the 
money. 

"  Think  of  the  Hotel  de  Bourgogne  with  a  royal  pen 
sion,"  he  sighed,  while  taking  a  final  hole  in  his  belt. 

12 


A   RAY   OF    SUNLIGHT  13 

"  Think  of  a  worthy  troupe  with  its  chandler  unpaid 
and  the  tennis  master  crying  for  his  rent !  "  exclaimed 
Beys ;  then,  to  accentuate  the  misery  of  the  company,  he 
extemporised  a  quatrain,  which  he  sang  with  a  voice 
somewhat  strained  for  fine  singing: 

"  While  courtiers  flock  to  hear  Montfleury  rant, 

And  comrades  fatten  on  a  pension, 
We  abler  actors  must  turn  mendicant, 
Or  dodge  the  gaol  by  circumvention." 

Excepting  Madeleine  Bejart,  the  troupe  laughed  up 
roariously  at  this,  till  Marie  Courtin's  voice  canae,  sud 
denly  shrill.  "  No  need  to  fear  creditors  if  our 
Madeleine  had  only  charmed  some  rich  bourgeois 
instead  of  a  hot-headed  fool — an  unarmed  student  who 
dashes  at  a  tipsy  musketeer !  " 

Something  like  a  smile  stole  to  Madeleine's  lip  while 
she  brushed  the  hair  that  fell  about  her  shoulders.  The 
affront  of  a  jealous  woman  she  parried  with  a  counter- 
thrust. 

"  I  can  sympathise  with  the  dying  lion  of  the  fable, 
who,  when  kicked  by  an  ass,  exclaimed :  '  To  the  assaults 
of  brave  comrades  I  am  resigned;  but  to  be  forced  to 
suffer  thy  cowardly  attack,  thou  disgrace  of  all  nature, 
is  verily  to  perish  twice.' " 

While  the  soubrette  bit  her  lip  in  anger,  Jean-Bap- 
tiste  de  1'Hermite,  her  husband,  whispered  softly: 
"  Bide  your  time,  my  dear.  The  Baron  de  Modene  has 
wearied  of  her,  that  I  know,  for  I  have  been  in  his 
confidence." 

"  Yet  he  sat  upon  the  stage  to-day,"  said  Marie 
Courtin,  pouting. 


14  FAME'S    PATHWAY 

"  Ay ;  to  show  his  contempt  of  the  dying  cardinal, 
who  has  set  a  price  on  his  head,  not  his  love  for  her." 

Marie  Courtin  looked  at  her  husband  quizzically. 

"  You  are  a  complaisant  lord  and  master/'  she  said. 

"A  little  cottage  in  the  comte  Venaissin,  where  are 
my  lord  of  Modene's  estates,  would  pleas^  me  well," 
whispered  Jean-Baptiste  de  1'Hermite  with  a  grin.  "  I 
thought  by  serving  him  in  his  intrigues  to  win  this  boon, 
but  though  I  have  aided  mightily  in  the  plots  His 
Highness  of  Orleans  and  he  have  hatched,  he 
has  ever  pleaded  poverty  as  an  excuse  for  not 
requiting  me.  Perchance  your  charms  will  loosen  his 
purse-strings." 

Now  the  lady  was  not  loath  to  enter  into  this  base 
conspiracy,  for,  in  that  age  of  licence,  she  was  not  the 
least  iniquitous.  Moreover,  she  adored  Monsieur  de 
Modene  with  a  quean's  frenzy  and  hated  Madeleine 
Bejart.  When  the  laughter  at  her  own  expense  had  sub 
sided,  she  renewed  the  attack  on  her  rival. 

"  I  have  been  cogitating  whether  or  not  the  ass's  shoe 
fits  my  foot,"  she  said.  "  If  Monsieur  de  Modene,  the 
courtly  gentleman-in-waiting  to  His  Highness  of 
Orleans,  approves  of  your  coquetting  with  a  scatter 
brained  youth  whose  ardour  leads  to  a  brawl  he  must 
perforce  quell  with  his  own  skill  at  fence,  then  am  I 
indeed  like  an  ass  in  believing  him  devoted  to  you, 
my  lady." 

"  Perchance  my  lord  seeks  an  easy  way  to  freedom," 
suggested  Jean-Baptiste  de  1'Hermite  slyly. 

Be  sure  Marie  Courtin  missed  nothing  of  this.  She 
was  quick  as  a  bird  of  prey,  and  saw  Madeleine  far  too 
calm  to  suit  her  pleasure;  so  her  voice  shrilled  again: 
"  In  which  case,  pardi,  our  Madeleine  is  in  a  fair  way 


A   RAY    OF    SUNLIGHT  15 

to  lose  her  good  fortune,  and  this  straitened  troupe  all 
hope  of  a  royal  pension." 

Madeleine  was  pale  and  serious  under  this  baiting, 
but  she  had  the  good  sense  not  to  speak.  Not  so  her 
sister  Genevieve,  who  came  hot  and  flushed  from  behind 
the  quilt,  buttoning  some  nether  garment  hurriedly. 

"  Spite !  "  she  piped  in  anger,  "  spite !  "  then,  turning 
to  the  company,  rattled  on,  "  Did  you  see  the  glances 
Marie  Courtin  cast  at  Monsieur  de  Modene  while  he 
sat  on  the  stage  to-day?  Of  all  the  ogling  hussies — " 

She  had  scant  chance  to  dodge  the  soubrette's  shoe  as 
it  flew  past  her  pretty  head.  It  bellied  the  quilt  and 
might  have  been  the  undoing  of  her  comeliness.  The 
nearest  missile — a  helmet  or  a  corselet — would  have 
answered  this  onslaught  had  not  Madeleine  Bej  art's 
wave  of  the  hand  been  superb  in  its  effrontery. 

"If  Marie  Courtin's  charms  can  win  the  gentleman- 
in-waiting,"  she  said  to  her  sister,  "  by  all  means  let 
them,  since  it  is  good  riddance." 

She  looked  at  her  rival  quite  fearlessly — as  a  bold 
hunter  might  look  at  some  wild  beast  that  came  in  his 
way.  Meanwhile  her  brother  picked  up  the  shoe  and, 
kneeling  at  the  soubrette's  feet,  showed  his  yellow  teeth 
between  his  pale  lips. 

"  Your  slipper,  m-m-mademoiselle,"  he  said  with 
mock  gallantry ;  "  may  I  have  the  honour  ?  "  and  while 
the  company  laughed,  he  placed  it  on  her  tiny  foot. 

The  girl  glanced  stealthily  about  from  under  her  dark 
lashes.  Seeing  the  pretty  jeune  premier  stop  prinking 
to  laugh  at  her  discomfiture,  she  bit  her  tongue  and 
bided  a  time  more  favourable. 

Madeleine  Bej  art  now  brushed  her  hair  undisturbed 
before  a  piece  of  broken  looking-glass.  To  one  who 


16  FAME'S    PATHWAY 

did  not  gaze  with  the  fervour  of  a  stage-struck  youth, 
her  lips  tightened  in  repose,  and  the  lines  that  care  had 
drawn  gave  her  the  defiant  aHj  of  one  who  had  been 
treated  harshly  by  the  world.  God  had  created  her 
beautiful,  she  knew,  but  adversity  had  dimmed  His 
handiwork.  As  she  looked  at  herself  with  half  closed 
eyes,  her  life  passed  before  her,  unconsciously,  with  its 
struggles,  its  pitfalls — her  life  of  weary  pilgrimage 
from  town  to  town  with  a  band  of  strolling  players. 
Dimly  she  recalled  to  mind  the  jolting  ox-carts;  the 
dreary  miles  of  high  road  tramps;  the  nights  gone 
supperless  to  bed;  the  audience  of  gaping  yokels  she 
had  played  to ;  the  gallants  who  had  wooed  her. 

"  Ah, .  those  years,"  she  thought,  "  that  should  have 
been  the  best  of  life !  Gone,  gone,  but  what  have  they 
brought  ?  "  and  she  smiled  bitterly. 

Once  she  had  listened  to  burning  words  whispered 
when  the  air  was  sweet  and  fleecy  clouds  hung  motion 
less  among  the  stars.  She  had  dreamed  away  her 
happiness  then,  in  the  sunny  land  of  the  south  among 
shadowy  vines;  for  Esprit  de  Remond  de  Mormoiron, 
Baron  de  Modene  and  gentleman-in-waiting  to  Monsieur, 
the  king's  brother,  was  a  name  to  thrill  a  young  and 
foolish  girl.  She  had  believed  him,  only  to  awake  and 
find  love  brutal;  and  so  a  noble  with  an  ashen  face  and 
cruel  eyes  now  had  a  seat  upon  the  stage,  a  noble  who 
could  disarm  musketeers  and  snub  tempestuous  youths 
with  the  same  sang-froid  with  which  he  ogled  a 
soubrette  or  twirled  his  moustache;  and  so,  in  a  far  off 
province,  there  was  the  little  grave  of  her  child — the 
only  tie  that  bound  her  to  him. 

She  had  some  twenty-four  years  behind  her,  and  was 
sceptical  of  sentiment;  yet  emotion  is  not  to  be  cal- 


A   RAY    OF    SUNLIGHT  IT: 

endared,  nor  could  a  youthful  paladin  spring  from  the 
pit  unregarded:  hence,  as  she  brushed  her  red-gold  hair, 
her  thoughts  kept  returning  to  the  adventure  of  the  day. 
Yet  the  reverie,  howsoever  pleasing,  was  short-lived; 
since  a  face,  suddenly  reflected  in  the  mirror  before 
her,  and  a  gloved  hand  laid  upon  her  bare  shoulder, 
caused  a  shudder  in  every  fibre  of  her  being. 

"  You ! "  she  exclaimed  in  no  uncertain  tone  of  dis 
pleasure. 

The  thin  lips  of  the  Baron  de  Modene — his  being  the 
face — parted  malevolently.  "  Yes,  I,"  he  muttered, 
"  in  lieu  of  a  rattle-brained  hero  whom  no  doubt  you 
expected ! " 

"  What  a  pity  you  are  not  he !  "  Madeleine  said,  with 
a  shrug  of  her  white  shoulders. 

Modene's  little  eyes  snapped  cruelly.  "  What  a  pity 
I  did  not  leave  him  to  be  spitted  by  the  musketeers !  " 

Her  glance  in  the  mirror  was  contemptuous.  "  Don't 
lavish  repentance  on  a  generous  action,  Remond — your 
sins  might  feel  slighted." 

At  this  a  smile. 

"  Generous !  Do  you  fancy  I  cared  two  sous  about 
the  safety  of  your  thick-lipped  friend?  The  beating 
on  the  pan  annoyed  me;  hence  I  stopped  the  brawl." 

Madeleine  turned  fiercely  to  reply. 

"  Yes,"  she  said ;  "  and  you  behaved  like  a  churl  to  a 
lad  who  was  certainly  generous  in  his  thanks !  " 

"Pardi,  he  made  us  both  ridiculous;  but  luckily  I 
have  left  the  service  of  Monsieur  to  follow  the  fortunes 
of  the  young  Due  de  Guise,  whose  adventures  are  likely 
to  lie  beyond  the  confines  of  France." 

"  In  order  to  avoid  me,  it  was  unnecessary  for  you  to 
change  masters,"  she  said,  suddenly  alert  to  his  meaning. 


18  FAME'S   PATHWAY 

"  Surely,  during  these  years  you  have  been  away  from 
me  plotting  Richelieu's  downfall  with  your  royal  master, 
neither  His  Eminence  nor  I  have  worried  unduly." 

The  courtier  knit  his  brows  with  chagrin.  "True; 
even  when  I  fled  wounded  from  the  Bois  de  la  Marfee 
with  a  price  on  my  head,  not  a  word  of  sympathy  from 
you,  though  Jean-Baptiste  de  1'Hermite  was  a  ready 
messenger,  as  you  knew." 

"  A  price  on  your  head ! "  said  Madeleine.  "  Much  it 
matters  to  you,  since  you  boldly  return  to  Paris  with 
the  price  still  there." 

"  Pardon  me,"  said  the  courtier,  *'  it  is  no  longer 
there,  for  His  Eminence  is  dead." 

"  Dead ! "  exclaimed  Madeleine  in  consternation. 
"  Richelieu  dead !  " 

"  To-day !     I  bear  the  authentic  news." 

"  And  you  take  it  so  coolly !  " 

"As  coolly  as  the  death  of  any  dog,"  answered 
Modene,  with  a  contented  shrug. 

A  murmur  of  alarm  ran  from  lip  to  lip,  for  the 
actors,  dismayed  by  the  news  the  courtier  had  brought, 
feared  its  effect  on  their  theatre's  receipts.  Surely  the 
great  cardinal's  obsequies  would  attract  the  public  away 
from  their  play-house,  thought  they;  and  consternation 
reigned  in  the  tiring  room,  but  only  momentarily,  for 
soon  their  fears  gave  place  to  joy  at  a  tyrant's  death — 
expressed  in  ribald  song  and  quip. 

Modene,  meantime,  bowed  himself  away  frigidly  from 
Madeleine,  and  kneeling  at  Marie  Courtin's  feet,  kissed 
her  hand;  whereat  the  soubrette's  face  became  an 
ecstasy. 

The  hasty  fastening  of  a  gown  awry  to  hide  the  gleam 
of  a  white  neck;  the  premeditated  side-glances;  the 


A   RAY   OF    SUNLIGHT  19 

sighs,  half-suppressed — such  artifices  of  the  coquette's 
trade  singularly  amused  Madeleine,  she  being  too 
thoroughly  convinced  of  Modene's  worthlessness  to 
suffer  jealousy.  As  she  gazed  at  his  pallid  face  with 
its  sly,  black  eyes  and  thin  lips,  a  feeling  of  disgust 
crept  over  her.  Once  her  soul  had  thrilled  to  the  sight 
of  his  love.  To  her  touch,  it  had  crumbled  like  a  dead 
sea  apple.  But  adversity  will  not  make  a  wanton  of  a 
woman;  and  though  her  life  was  not  above  reproach  by 
those  who  never  had  been  tempted,  six  years  of  vaga 
bondage  in  a  wanton  age  had  made  of  her  a  woman, 
faithful  in  the  sense  that  faith  means  loyalty  and 
courage. 

One  by  one,  lean  actors  shambled  to  the  street;  mean 
time,  dowdy  actresses,  tripping  on  high  heels,  smiled 
and  showed  their  glistening  teeth  to  gallants  who  stood 
bowing  with  plumed  hats  against  their  breasts.  The 
soubrette  sighed  as  she  went  forth,  and  Modene  bent 
his  waist  in  politesse  while  her  hand  stole  through  the 
bow  his  arm  had  made. 

Madeleine  followed  at  her  brother's  side,  erect  and 
contemptuous,  until,  among  the  ogling  gallants  at  the 
door,  she  saw  a  thick-lipped  youth.  He  did  not  crowd 
forward  like  the  rest  to  bow  and  smicker,  but  in  the 
glance  that  passed  between  them,  she  saw  just  a  ray  of 
sunlight  through  the  grey  mist  of  her  life. 


CHAPTER  III 

AT  THE   SERVICE-TREE    TAVERN 

WHEN  Madeleine  had  passed  the  youth,  she  turned. 
Seeing  him  standing  apart  from  the  group  of  gallants, 
she  blushed  prettily  and  spoke. 

"  Will  you  not  tell  me  your  name,  monsieur,  so  that 
we  may  be  friends  ?  " 

He  met  the  look  of  her  clear  blue  eyes,  seeing  that 
sympathy  and  gentleness  burned  steadily  there. 

"  My  name  is  Jean-Baptiste  Poquelin,"  he  said.  "  I 
am  a  student  of  the  laws." 

"  I  shall  never  forget  your  solicitude  for  me,  mon 
sieur — your  courage." 

"  And  I  shall  never  forget  you,  mademoiselle,"  he  said 
in  a  voice  low  and  tremulous. 

"  I  live  in  the  Marais  quarter — in  the  cul-de-sac  de 
Thorigny,"  she  answered  graciously,  and  turned  away. 
"  I  shall  hope  to  see  you." 

"  If  I  live,  mademoiselle." 

He  caught  her  hand  as  she  went  and  kissed  it 
ardently,  and  to  him  the  universe  seemed  throbbing  like 
his  heart.  For  a  time  he  stood  there,  lost  in  sweet 
meditations,  till  a  touch  on  his  shoulder  aroused  him, 
and  he  turned  with  a  start.  He  had  forgotten,  as 
lovers  will  forget,  that  there  was  any  one  in  the  world 
except  Madeleine  Bejart  and  himself. 

"  Come,"  said  Chapelle  amiably.  "  Wine  is  the  surest 
antidote  for  love." 

20 


AT    THE    SERVICE-TREE    TAVERN     21 

In  the  half  light  of  a  dying  day,  Jean-Baptiste 
watched  the  receding  form  of  his  idol,  ere,  with  a  sigh, 
he  turned  to  do  the  bidding  of  his  friend. 

Joseph  Bejart,  the  stutterer,  a  more  intent  watcher 
than  Chapelle,  having  read  the  glance  that  passed  be 
tween  his  sister  and  the  youth,  bethought  him  that  a 
bourgeois  student  oftentimes  has  money,  whereas  a 
worthy  band  of  players  had  none.  But  to  suggest  a 
riggish  plucking  to  high-minded  Madeleine,  he  knew  was 
futile,  so  he  turned  softly  and  followed  on  the  steps  of 
Chapelle  and  young  Poquelin  to  the  door  of  a  cabaret 
known  as  The  Service-Tree. 

Lights  already  glimmered  in  the  tavern;  the  air  was 
heavy  with  the  breaths  of  the  company  and  the  lees  of 
drink;  a  fire  crackling  upon  the  broad  hearth  tempered 
the  December  cold  and  filled  the  gloom  of  a  day  just 
spent  with  fantastic  shadows  of  patrons  girdling  the 
tables  with  their  lean  shapes,  The  Service-Tree  being 
the  haunt  of  poets  and  rogues.  The  place  brimmed 
with  roisterers,  so  Bejart  entered  behind  the  students 
unobserved. 

Chapelle  was  for  joining  a  group  of  friends — Bernier, 
a  medical  student;  Le  Broussin,  an  idler;  Hesnault,  a 
rhymster;  Bachaumont,  a  pamphleteer:  all  young  sparks 
of  kindred  tastes — but  Jean-Baptiste  was  loath  to 
mingle  with  this  gay  throng.  With  them  he  saw  the 
poet  Colletet,  a  wine-loving  immortal  of  the  new-born 
Academy,  and  knew  that  his  presence  meant  a  night  of 
revelry.  Chapelle,  poor  lad,  had  an  overweening  fond 
ness  for  the  wine-cup ;  those  roisterers,  a  too  great  readi 
ness  to  fill  it.  To  spare  his  friend  temptation,  and 
himself  annoyance,  Jean-Baptiste  led  the  way  to  a  table 
apart,  pulling  Chapelle  after  him.  Penniless  Bejart 


22  FAME'S    PATHWAY 

edged  near  the  pair,  hoping  to  be  asked  to  join  them, 
but  Jean-Baptiste,  having  no  eyes  for  him,  sank  into  a 
chair  to  dream. 

Chapelle,  votary  of  pleasure,  paid  ribald  compliment 
to  the  serving-maid,  meantime.  The  girl  blushed  and 
brought  the  choicest  cut  of  a  Bayonne  ham  and  a  bottle 
of  cheer.  While  he  filled  a  glass  and  raised  it  to  the 
level  of  his  eyes,  she  let  him  draw  his  arm  about  her 
waist;  then,  seeing  she  was  playing  after-thought  to 
the  mellow  Burgundy,  she  pouted  herself  away. 

What  cared  he  for  a  fair,  shameless  face,  more  or 
less,  when  generous  wine  flowed  in  his  veins?  With  a 
glance  through  the  clear  ruby,  he  gave  the  glass  a 
rotary  motion  beneath  his  nostrils;  a  few  drops  soon 
trickled  down  slowly  over  his  tongue. 

"  No  wench  under  Heaven  is  worth  a  glass,"  he  said 
above  the  clatter  of  the  mugs  and  dice,  and  the  rasping 
laughter. 

Jean-Baptiste  raised  himself  upon  his  elbows  from  the 
table  where  his  head  had  fallen. 

"  Chained  to  tradition,  like  a  galley  slave,"  he  sighed. 
"  If  I  had  only  the  courage  to  escape !  " 

Chapelle  took  a  last  swallow  of  the  velvety  wine  and 
reached  for  the  bottle. 

"  Love  goes  to  your  head  like  drink  to  mine,"  he 
grunted. 

A  smile  almost  disturbed  Jean-Baptiste's  mournful 
face,  though  he  made  no  answer.  He  knew  that  his  life 
had  been  moulded  for  him,  a  petty  life  in  a  narrow 
groove,  and  the  thought  of  his  father's  shop  seemed  to 
stifle  him — that  shop  sodden  through  and  through  with 
middle  class  respectability.  Amid  the  smell  of  hams 
and  cheeses  in  the  tavern,  he  seemed  to  sniff  upholstery 


AT    THE    SERVICE-TREE    TAVERN     23 

and  glue,  then  musty  law  books.  Valet  de  chambre 
tapissier  du  roi !  His  father  held  the  office  and  he  the 
reversion.  It  meant  that  he  might  make  the  royal  bed. 
Yes,  one  day,  he,  Jean-Baptiste  Poquelin,  student  of  the 
laws,  might  be  an  advocate  esteemed  in  bourgeois  Paris 
and  tolerated  in  the  antechamber  of  the  king. 

With  trembling  hand  he  poured  him  a  glass  of  Bur 
gundy.  If  only  he  might  soothe  his  heart-aches  in  the 
glow  of  wine  as  easily  as  Chapelle,  he  thought.  Mean 
while,  Chapelle  pulled  his  sleeve.  "  Was  there  ever 
such  a  face  as  that  ?  "  he  exclaimed,  pointing  to  a  tall 
form  in  the  doorway  arrayed  in  a  faded  doublet. 

Jean-Baptiste  glanced  up.  Beneath  a  huge,  un 
kempt  peruke,  he  saw  a  pimpled  nose  upon  a  face  more 
monkey-like  than  human.  "  Guillot-Gor j  u,  the  co 
median  !  "  he  said  with  a  show  of  interest.  "  I  've  a  mind 
to  ask  him  to  share  our  cheer." 

Glancing  at  the  half-empty  bottle,  Chapelle  opened 
his  lips  in  disapproval,  but  his  protest  that  there  was  not 
enough  cheer  for  another  was  unheeded.  Jean-Bap 
tiste  hailed  the  old  comedian  with  the  pump-like  nose, 
and  Joseph  Bejart,  from  his  coign  beyond  the  glim 
mering  lights,  missed  not  the  words;  so,  hastening  to 
greet  his  player  colleague,  he  shared  with  him  the 
student's  bidding  to  a  supper.  As  Madeleine's  brother 
he  was  trebly  welcomed,  while  his  fellow-player,  with 
whom  the  world  went  ill  these  days,  sniffed  the  Bayonne 
ham  from  afar  and  involuntarily  fondled  his  middle. 

After  his  young  companion  had  returned  in  triumph 
with  the  actors,  Chapelle  sat  silent  until  a  fresh  bottle 
and  a  brace  of  glasses  had  been  brought.  His  affa 
bility  declared  itself  then  in  an  amiable  look  over  the 
rim  of  his  goblet. 


24s  FAME'S    PATHWAY 

"  My  friend  Poquelin  has  a  wild  passion  for  the 
stage/'  he  chuckled.  "  Can  you  not  fit  him  with  a  part, 
good  sirs?  The  role  of  lover  would  suit  him  mightily." 

The  words  sounded  cruelly  enough  to  Jean-Baptiste, 
absorbed  as  he  was  in  thoughts  of  Madeleine  Bejart. 
"  I  do  love  the  stage !  "  he  cried.  "  It  is  indeed  my 
passion!  "  Then  turning  to  Guillot-Gor  ju,  he  smiled  in 
pride :  "  My  grandfather  took  me  to  your  debut,  sir, 
twelve  years  ago;  since  then  I  have  never  missed  a  play 
when  I  have  had  five  sous.  If  I  love  the  theatre,  the 
art  of  Guillot-Gor j  u,  the  best  of  French  comedians,  is, 
in  a  way,  responsible." 

Smirking,  the  veteran  actor  bent  at  the  waist  until 
his  long  nose  touched  the  table. 

"  Sir,  you  overwhelm  me !  " 

Poquelin  smiled  affably:  "I  said  the  best  of  French 
comedians — Scaramouche  can  teach  you  all." 

Guillot-Gor ju   crimsoned,   his   ugly   mouth   puckered. 

"  My  young  friend,"  he  piped  testily,  "  would  you  fall 
down  and  worship  every  macaroni-eating  vagabond  who 
comes  to  Paris  merely  because  he  hails  from  beyond  the 
Alps?" 

"  I  would  worship  a  great  artist  from  anywhere ! " 

"  Humph !  You  should  be  the  orateur  of  the  Hotel 
du  Petit  Bourbon.  Scaramouche  would  pay  you  well  to 
tout  his  Italian  band." 

Joseph  Bejart  missed  nothing  of  this.  He  had  seen 
the  purse  from  which  young  Poquelin  paid  the  landlord 
for  the  vintage,  and  he  thought  the  moment  favourable 
to  abet  the  scheme  he  had  hatched.  "  For  my  p-p-part," 
he  said  with  much  ado  of  stuttering,  "  I  think  monsieur 
a  most  discerning  student  of  the  stage.  In  t-t-truth,  he 
should  be  an  actor  himself." 


AT   THE    SERVICE-TREE    TAVERN     25 

"  La-la-la/'  chuckled  Guillot-Gorj  u.  "  Then  there 
would  be  but  one  comedian  in  France.  Think  of  poor 
Scaramouche  dethroned !  " 

A  roar  of  laughter  came  from  Chapelle's  throat. 
Tears  threatened  in  Jean-Baptiste's  eyes,  but  he  held 
them  back. 

"  Laugh  till  your  sides  burst,"  he  cried,  the  blood  in 
his  heart  turning  to  fire ;  "  yet  make  sure  that,  if  ever 
I  become  an  actor,  I  shall  not  attempt  to  dethrone 
Scaramouche — or  you,  Guillot-Gorj  u.  If  I  tread  the 
boards,  it  will  be  to  shame  ranting  Montfleury.  Tragedy, 
my  friends,  not  comedy,  shall  be  my  art,  for  now,  as 
in  the  classic  days  of  Greece,  an  actor  finds  a  worthy 
calling  in  tragedy  alone." 

Mirth  showed  in  Guillot-Gorj  u's  face.  "  You  will 
act  what  Heaven  created  you  to  act,  my  bold  young 
friend,  or  you  will  be  hissed.  If  I  be  a  judge 
of  physiognomy,  you  will  act  comedy  or  act  not  at 
all." 

"  Never !  "  said  Jean-Baptiste  firmly.  "  Never  shall 
I  be  a  mere  buffoon !  " 

Spare  Bejart  twined  his  fingers  in  a  pleasing  grasp 
and  showed  his  yellow  teeth  beneath  a  smile. 

"  There  is  n-n-no  reason  why  you  should  not  be  a 
fine  tra-tra-tragedian,"  he  faltered.  "  The  stage  has 
need  of  courageous  men.  Guillot-Gorj  u  is  wrong. 
Your  f-f-face  was  made  for  tragedy." 

Poquelin  laughed,  but  the  sound  of  his  laughter 
quickly  died. 

"  I,  an  actor !  My  father  would  turn  me  from  his 
door !  " 

"My  g-g-good  sir,"  said  Bejart,  making  a  deprecat 
ing  gesture  with  his  lean  hands,  "the  k-k-king  has 


26  FAME'S   PATHWAY 

decreed  that  no  reproach  shall  attach  to  the  p-p-profes- 
sion  of  actor." 

"  Until  the  church  withdraws  its  ban/'  the  student 
answered  him,  "  I  fear  no  edict  of  the  king  can  move 
a  heart  of  stone  such  as  my  father's." 

The  fumes  of  wine  had  bewildered  the  wits  of  Claude 
Chapelle,  so  he  missed  the  argument  and  dozed;  but 
Guillot-Gorju,  looking  at  Jean-Baptiste  ironically  out 
of  the  corner  of  an  eye,  grinned  with  his  thick  lips. 
"  My  young  friend,  I  am  of  gentle  birth — Bertrand 
Hardin  de  Saint  Jacques  is  my  name — and  once  I  was 
a  stage-struck  student  like  yourself.  I  ran  away  from 
home,  but  I  have  lived  to  rue  it." 

Jean-Bap tiste's  chin  dropped  upon  his  breast  in  a 
crestfallen  way. 

"I  should  have  been  more  respectful  to  one  of  your 
experience,"  he  pleaded.  "  Pray  pardon  me." 

The  old  comedian  bowed. 

"  I  have  accepted  your  cheer,  monsieur,  and  in 
requital,  let  me  tell  you  my  experience.  You  will  see 
that  the  stage  is  not  all  glamour  and  applause." 

Guillot-Gor j  u  told  his  story. 

It  was  a  tale  of  wandering  in  the  days  when  actors 
were  outcasts  to  whom  the  right  of  Christian  burial  was 
denied.  The  old  comedian  had  been  a  student  at 
Montpellier  and  then  the  pantomimist  of  a  travelling 
quack,  stoned  by  village  urchins,  chased  from  hamlet  to 
hamlet  by  the  authorities.  Jean-Baptiste  tried  to 
picture  to  himself  the  misery  of  this  stroller's  life:  the 
days  of  footsore  tramping;  the  supperless  nights  with 
the  ground  for  a  pallet;  the  audiences  of  staring  clod- 
polls  before  whom  he  tumbled  and  grimaced  while  his 
master  sold  his  quackeries.  What  a  life!  he  thought. 


AT    THE    SERVICE-TREE    TAVERN     27 

No  wonder  he  can  set  the  pit  a-roar  when,  in  faculty 
wig  and  gown,  he  rattles  off  Latin  in  his  inimitable  way. 
Sixteen  years  of  wandering  to  learn  the  role  of  comic 
doctor,  and  I  have  dared  to  criticise ! 

"  Ah,  my  dear  sir,"  he  cried,  "  when  I  presumed  to 
give  my  uncouth  views  I  little  knew  what  you  had 
undergone  to  learn  your  art !  " 

"  You  honoured  me,  monsieur,  by  calling  me  the  best 
of  French  comedians,"  the  old  actor  said  with  doleful 
voice  and  gesture.  "  Would  that  the  public  thought  the 
same !  But  here  am  I  with  half  a  century  already  spent, 
grateful  for  the  supper  you  have  given.  I  quarrelled 
with  my  comrades  of  the  royal  troupe;  then  tried,  too 
late,  to  play  the  role  I  had  so  often  mimicked.  At 
Melun,  in  the  last  three  years,  I  sought  to  begin  my  life 
anew  and  practice  medicine.  I  am  to-day  a  doctor 
without  patients,  a  comedian  without  a  part.  Would 
that  I  were  a  student  at  Montpellier  once  more,  with 
life  before  me !  Nay,  my  young  man,  dream  no  longer 
of  the  stage." 

As  Guillot-Gorju  spoke,  the  door  was  flung  open 
and  a  wild  rout  burst  into  the  room:  poets  of  pleasure, 
students — a  hubbub  of  shouting,  singing,  and  tramping 
feet  to  drown  the  rattle  of  the  dice  cups;  to  every  man 
a  girl  recruited  from  the  depths  of  night,  and  in  the 
lead  that  demon  of  bravery,  Cyrano  de  Bergerac.  At 
sight  of  his  red,  scarred  nose,  the  rogues  at  the  tables 
snatched  up  their  stakes  and  paled;  while  over  the 
tumult  rose  his  Gascon  voice,  over  the  click  of  mug  and 
deep-throated  laughter : 

"  Since  folly  and  pleasure  are  sold  by  the  glass, 
He  who  drinks  water  is  surely  an  ass." 


28  FAME'S    PATHWAY 

Mad  Cyrano  of  ugly  mien,  who  once  had  fought  a 
hundred  men!  Jean-Baptiste  loved  his  poet's  soul,  but 
not  the  pack  which  yelped  and  frolicked  in  his  train; 
not  so  Chapelle,  on  orgy  bent,  who  awoke  from  his 
stupor  to  hail  the  crew  as  comrades.  Jean-Baptiste 
did  his  utmost  to  lead  him  hence,  but  Bachaumont  raised 
his  flagon  and  Bernier  called  to  him;  so  Chapelle  broke 
from  his  friend's  grasp  to  join  the  rout  and  celebrate 
the  death  of  hated  Richelieu. 

The  shrill  clatter  and  the  oaths  awoke  to  delight  the 
tavern  keeper,  who  rubbed  his  hands  gleefully.  Deep 
drinkers  and  free  spenders  all;  but  it  was  not  the  kind 
of  company  a  sober  man  should  desire,  so  Jean-Bap 
tiste  bid  hasty  adieux  to  his  actor  friends.  Joseph 
Bejart,  watching  his  retreating  figure,  left  Guillot- 
Gorju  to  devour  the  remnants  of  the  ham.  Opening  the 
door  noiselessly,  he  stepped  out  into  the  night.  Rapid 
footing  brought  him  to  the  young  man's  side. 

"  M-m-monsieur,"  he  said,  "  you  played  a  manly  part 
to-day  and  won  the  regard  of  a  lady  d-d-difficult  to 
please." 

His  young  heart  a-flutter,  Jean-Baptiste  looked  up  at 
him,  and  down  quickly;  but  before  he  could  answer, 
the  actor  had  glided  into  the  darkness,  soundlessly  as  he 
came.  Wondering  at  the  man's  strange  ways,  he  went 
alone  through  the  streets  until  he  stopped  upon  a  bridge. 

The  towers  of  Notre  Dame  stood  out  against  the  night ; 
her  flying  buttresses  arose  above  the  huddled  houses  of 
the  city.  Torches  flamed  and  coaches  rumbled,  and 
while  the  cries  of  link-boys  shrilled,  the  river  flowed 
unceasingly  beneath  him ;  but  he  saw  not  Paris  nor  heard 
her  sounds.  He  was  thinking  of  a  little  stage  athwart 
rude  trestles;  thinking  of  Guillot-Gor j u's  story  and  the 


AT    THE    SERVICE-TREE    TAVERN     29 

warning  it  had  given.  He  longed  to  break  down  the 
walls  that  held  him  and  soar  untrammelled  into  the 
night;  and  in  that  moment,  he  seemed  to  see  her  in  the 
candle  light — her  eyes  like  star-shine.  Then  a  strange 
exultation  overcame  him,  and  he  seemed  to  be  taken  out 
of  himself  and  borne  afar  off;  but  while  he  dreamed,  a 
feeling  of  shame  swept  through  him,  for  he  heard  a 
faint  whispering:  "Would  you  be  an  unshriven  outcast 
— a  vagabond  ?  " 


CHAPTER  IV 

A  SALON  OF  VAGABONDIA 

IF  creditors  were  to  be  paid,  Madeleine's  theatre  must 
be  filled;  yet,  in  an  age  when  plays  were  acted  only 
three  days  in  the  week,  and  the  admission  was  but  five 
sous,  her  suburban  play-house,  with  students  and 
artisans  for  patrons,  proved  an  ill-starred  venture. 
Being  a  girl  of  wit  and  beauty,  she  had  met  in  the 
provinces  many  gallants  whom  politics  or  fancy  had 
exiled  from  the  capital;  but  to  ask  a  favour  of  one  of 
these  would  be  to  put  a  price  upon  her  charms.  Though 
the  age  was  dissolute,  though  the  tennis  master 
clamoured  for  his  rent  and  the  chandler  for  the  price 
of  the  dips  he  had  furnished,  her  heart  rebelled  at  such 
a  thought.  Too  high-spirited  to  admit  defeat,  too  proud 
to  bend  before  the  Baron  de  Modene,  she  courted  such 
wits  and  beaux  as  she  chanced  to  know,  trusting  that, 
once  her  fame  had  reached  the  royal  circle,  the  fortunes 
of  her  straitened  company  might  mend. 

She  still  owned  a  house,  however,  bought  in  days  of 
greater  prosperity,  a  modest  dwelling  crowded  among 
the  pointed  roots  and  protruding  walls  of  the  Marais 
quarter;  and  there,  on  the  days  when  her  theatre  was 
closed,  she  gathered  her  actresses  about  her  and  played 
fine  lady  of  the  player  world. 

Jean  Rotrou,  sole  rival  of  the  great  Corneille,  had 
been  her  neighbour  once;  and  she,  a  girl  of  eighteen 
then,  had  worshipped  at  his  shrine,  inditing  verses,  even, 

30 


A    SALON  OF  VAGABONDIA  '31 

in  his  honour,  which  he  had  proudly  printed  before  the 
tragedy  they  praised.  Since  then,  he  had  become  a 
magistrate  at  Dreux,  his  native  town,  so  she  saw  him  no 
more.  But  the  prestige  of  his  friendship  had  won  for 
her  a  position  in  stage-land  so  enviable  that  her  modest 
salon  became  a  gathering  place  for  poets  and  wits  to 
whom  the  doors  of  the  Hotel  de  Rambouillet  remained 
unopened. 

Though  scant  of  purse  and  yet  unknown  to  fame,  her 
familiars  vied  in  brilliancy  and  repartee  with  the  dis 
tinguished  circle  of  the  Blue  Room  in  the  rue  Saint 
Thomas  du  Louvre,  where  a  noble  hostess  made  both  wit 
and  virtue  fashionable.  But  the  emulation  of  Mad 
eleine's  set  was  only  in  the  way  of  cleverness.  It  was 
a  company  of  intellect  and  indigence  in  an  age  when  wits 
were  sharpened  by  adversity  and  poets  lived  on  patrons' 
crumbs;  it  was  not  a  coterie  of  virtue. 

Her  humble  parquetry  was  merely  pine,  her  chairs 
were  straight-backed,  incommodious  things  with  leathern 
bottoms,  and  her  candelabra,  pewter;  yet  even  this  sim 
plicity  more  than  taxed  her  straitened  means,  especially 
since  the  larder  must  be  kept  filled  against  the  coming 
of  her  guests. 

One  evening  when  the  candles  flamed  amid  the  clus 
tered  goblets  on  the  sideboard,  Madeleine  stood  alone  by 
a  window,  more  pensive  than  was  her  custom.  The 
night  was  clear  and  starlit;  before  her  rose  the  roofs  of 
Paris  with  their  quaint  tourelles :  and  as  she  awaited  the 
arrival  of  her  intimates,  she  fell  to  thinking  of  a  certain 
student  of  the  laws — of  the  glance  that  had  passed 
between  them  when  he  stood  among  the  gallants  at  the 
theatre  door.  A  week  had  passed  since  he  sprang  to 
her  defence,  and  gazing  at  sleeping  Paris,  she  thought 


32  FAME'S    PATHWAY 

his  reticence  most  singular,  for  if  ever  she  had  seen  a 
look  of  adoration,  it  had  been  in  his  eyes  that  day. 

But  thinking  thus  upon  the  strange  adventure,  a  door 
behind  her  opened  and  the  scabbard  of  a  rapier  grazed 
against  the  wall.  Turning,  she  saw  the  Baron  de 
Modene,  with  scented  curls  and  foppish  ribbons,  sweep 
ing  his  plumed  hat  to  his  breast. 

"  Mademoiselle,  I  am  your  servitor,"  he  said. 

"  I  thought  not  to  see  you  again,"  she  answered,  and 
looked  away.  He  came  and  stood  beside  her,  but  when 
his  arm  stole  round  her  waist,  she  loosened  it  gently. 

"  You  were  not  always  obdurate,"  he  said.  "  There 
was  a  time  in  the  far  off  comte  Venaissin  when  you  gave 
me  your  heart." 

Madeleine  looked  at  him  strangely,  her  own  voice 
sounding  distant  to  her,  like  a  voice  from  the  past. 

"  I  do  not  ask  it  back,"  she  said ;  "  I  only  ask  the 
privilege  to  forget." 

"Because  you  are  jealous,"  he  laughed;  "jealous  of 
Marie  Courtin.  Morbleu,  must  a  man  always  be  at  one 
woman's  feet?  " 

She  stood  watching  him,  neither  defiant  nor  fearful, 
but  with  a  long,  unmoving  gaze. 

"  Remond,"  she  said,  "  I  give  you  freedom  will 
ingly,  but  in  return  I  ask  my  own." 

"  Mon  dieu,  but  my  lady  is  testy !  Can  I  not  smile  at 
a  pretty  face  ?  "  and  he  shook  the  laces  in  his  cuffs. 

She  was  thinking  of  a  distant  province,  and  the 
vows  he  had  whispered  there ;  thinking,  too,  of  a  church 
yard  and  a  tiny,  unmarked  grave.  Yes,  she  had  believed 
him  then,  because  she  was  a  girl  blinded  by  her  faith  in 
him,  and  he  a  cavalier  accomplished  in  the  ways  of 
gallantry — a  married  man  as  well,  though  she  had 


A    SALON  OF  VAGABONDIA  33 

known  it  not.  Looking  now  in  his  cruel  eyes,  she  won 
dered  not  that  love  was  changeable,  but  that  her  heart 
had  ever  thrilled  to  the  words  he  had  whispered  upon  a 
night  like  this  of  a  heaven  filled  with  stars. 

"  Love  dies  with  confidence,"  she  said  at  last,  "  and 
as  I  can  no  longer  trust  you,  love  is  a  pretence." 

A  smile  wrinkled  Modene's  face.  "  Ah,  a  new  pro 
tector,  as  I  can  readily  divine.  Mademoiselle,  I  con 
gratulate  you." 

In  the  dim  light,  he  did  not  see  the  angry  flush  nor 
the  trembling  of  her  lip. 

"  Only  my  knowledge  of  the  world,"  she  answered, 
"  and  of  you." 

"  Knowledge  is  a  poor  defence  against  a  bailiff  with 
a  batch  of  bills." 

"  How  insolent !  "  she  cried.  "  You  have  made  me 
an  object  of  contempt,  I  grant,  but  not  of  charity." 

He  caught  her  angry  gaze  fixed  upon  him;  she  was 
pale  except  at  the  lips,  but  her  blue  eyes  shone. 
Trembling  from  head  to  foot,  she  left  him,  taking  two 
or  three  swift  turns  across  the  floor. 

"  Oh,  if  the  world  were  not  all  ordered  wrong ! "  she 
paid  at  last;  "if  the  woman  was  not  always  to  be 
sacrificed !  " 

Modene  turned  with  voice  and  gesture  of  apology. 

"  I  was  over-cruel,  Madeleine;  forgive  me." 

"  You  did  right  to  insult  me,"  she  went  on,  unheed 
ing.  "  An  actress  in  this  land  of  France  is  merely  an 
outcast,  and  the  love  men  offer  me  is  such  as  yours." 

"  Don't  inveigh  against  the  world,  or  me,"  he  sneered, 
"  but  rather  blame  your  own  perverseness.  You  might 
have  been  a  housewife  had  you  wished." 

As  his  words  died  away,  memories  of  the  past  came 


34  FAME'S    PATHWAY 

crowding  up  and  beating  cruelly  upon  her  brain: 
memories  of  her  childhood  and  the  long,  hard  years 
when  she  had  fought  adversity.  The  wild  desire  of 
youth  to  roam  a  free-winged  creature  where  she  willed 
seemed  dead,  and  success  only  a  will-o'-the-wisp  in  the 
marshes  of  life.  She  wondered  if  she  had  the  courage 
to  fight  on;  but  glancing  timidly  about  her,  she  met  the 
hard  glitter  of  Modene's  glance,  and  a  strange  activity 
arose  within  her,  the  feverish  unquiet  of  the  soul  we  call 
ambition.  Better  far,  she  thought,  to  be  an  unknown 
outcast  than  a  dull,  innocuous  creature  for  his  sneers. 
Closing  her  eyes,  she  stood  for  a  moment  praying  for 
the  strength  to  conquer. 

"  Remond,"  she  said  at  last,  "  I  ask  nought  but  the 
chance  to  live  my  life  in  my  own  manner." 

He  had  premeditated  a  rupture,  but  his  self-love  was 
injured  by  her  ready  acceptance  of  his  design;  and  in 
all  the  five  years  he  had  known  her,  the  simple  truth  had 
never  come  to  him  before,  that  she  was  a  woman  to  be 
adored.  Yet  rather  than  admit  it,  the  words  ran  coldly 
from  him. 

"  Pardi,  since  you  have  made  your  own  bed — lie  in 
it." 

Turning,  she  came  toward  him  with  a  hand  out 
stretched  and  said,  "  I  will,  even  though  it  be  a  pallet." 

"  You  ride  a  high  horse  for  a  fall,"  he  sneered. 

Courageously  she  met  his  look  of  defiance.  "  You 
misunderstand,"  she  answered  in  a  low  and  measured 
voice.  "  I  have  already  fallen,  and  I  am  trying  to  pick 
myself  up,  however  stunned  and  bruised.  I  shall  try, 
also,  to  win  my  little  triumph  in  the  only  arena  open  to 
women  like  myself;  but  if  ever  I  cry  out  for  help,  it 
will  not  be  to  you." 


A    SALON  OF  VAGABONDIA  35 

Modene  recoiled  and  his  eyes  narrowed  with  vexation. 

"  I  could  be  a  bitter  enemy,"  he  answered ;  "  but  it  is 
not  worth  my  while." 

Madeleine  looked  at  him  with  scornful  admiration. 
Meantime,  footsteps  creaked  upon  the  stairs,  and  laugh 
ter  welled. 

"  Shall  it  be  war  or  peace?  "  she  asked. 

He  smoothed  a  rumpled  bow  of  ribbons  on  his  sleeve 
and  a  smile  flickered  over  his  dark  face. 

"  Peace,"  he  answered,  "  since  it  leaves  us  free  to  war 
as  we  please." 

The  company  which  entered  was  not  the  company  she 
would  have  chosen,  but  companionship,  like  love,  is  more 
often  a  matter  of  propinquity  than  choice;  withal  it  was 
a  company  to  whisk  blue  devils  to  the  four  winds,  so  it 
served  a  purpose.  Catherine  Desurlis  and  Madelon 
Malingre,  two  of  the  prettiest  and  frailest  girls  in  Paris, 
and  D'Assoucy,  a  vagabond  rhymster  twanging  his  lute, 
followed  apace  by  Marie  Courtin  de  la  Dehors,  arm  in 
arm  with  young  Fran£ois  Bachaumont,  the  pamphleteer 
— a  laughing,  pirouetting  troop  of  revellers  whose  mirth 
and  rustling  skirts  drove  care  from  her  heart.  She 
turned  to  greet  them  and  her  face  was  smiling. 

"  Welcome,  my  friends,"  she  said,  while  the  girls  and 
gallants  kissed  her  on  the  cheek;  then  D'Assoucy  knelt 
before  her  and  lifted  his  clear  voice,  and  as  his  fingers 
tinkled  the  strings  of  his  lute,  he  sang: 

"  That  others'  love  may  be  implored, 
That  others'  charms  may  be  adored, 

Is  easy  to  declare; 
Yet  beauty,  beauteous  as  thine, 
Thou  marvel,  marvellous,  divine, 
Can  never  be,  I  swear." 

A  murmur  of  applause  came  to  the  lips  of  the  ac- 


86  FAME'S   PATHWAY 

tresses;  but  while  the  last  notes  of  the  song  drifted 
among  the  rafters,  young  Bachaumont,  ever  ready  of 
wit  and  satire,  added  a  savour  of  gall  to  the  singer's 
triumph. 

"  The  voice  is  his,  fair  Madeleine,  but  the  sentiment 
is  stolen  from  my  heart,  and  the  verses  from  the  garland 
of  Malherbe." 

D'Assoucy's  well-featured  face  grew  dark.  Hurriedly 
he  turned  the  taunt  with  a  laugh :  "  Can  Bachaumont 
maintain  his  heart  is  robbed  when  Malherbe's  verses  and 
my  own  poor  voice  express  the  adoration  of  us  all  ?  " 

"  The  young  man  speaks  truly,"  sneered  Marie  Cour- 
tin,  her  face  paling  for  the  moment.  "  Though  others 
may  be  wooed  and  others  adored,  no  beauty  can  compare 
with  that  of  La  Bejart." 

Modene,  who  had  failed  to  greet  this  lady,  missed 
not  her  irony,  but  knew  the  value  of  disdain  when  ado 
ration  has  overshot  a  woman's  heart.  "  Marvel  of  mar 
vels,  I  salute  you,"  he  said  to  his  hostess,  with  a  sweep 
of  his  feathered  hat.  "  Fortunate  Malherbe,  to  have 
foreseen  your  charms  full  thirty  years  ago !  " 

Fat  Beys,  votary  of  Bacchus  and  Apollo,  entered  as 
he  spoke. 

"  Ay,  fortunate  Malherbe ! "  came  in  a  sigh  from  his 
lips ;  "  to  win  the  regard  of  king  and  cardinal  and  flour 
ish  on  a  pension  should  be  a  poet's  paradise — alas,  I 
envy  Malherbe's  lot,  even  though  he  be  dead." 

Madeleine,  flushed  and  smiling,  stood  amid  her 
friends;  beyond  her  were  lights  and  shadowy  draperies. 

"  Envy  not  the  dead,"  she  cried,  "  but  live  for  the  joy 
of  living !  " 

While  her  words  rang  through  the  room,  Beys  saw 
upon  the  sideboard,  beside  the  beef  tongues  and  pate  of 


A   SALON  OF  VAGABONDIA  37 

hare,  a  flagon  of  rich,  red  wine,  and  readily  forgot 
Apollo  and  his  rites.  He  sidled  toward  the  cheer,  and 
Modene,  the  rake,  to  Marie  Courtin's  side;  and  as  the 
merriment  increased,  the  company  grew  apace.  Three 
actresses  with  tresses  tied  with  ribbons  came  lifting  their 
petticoats  to  show  their  scarlet,  apple  green,  or  sky  blue 
hose;  an  indigent  cavalier,  as  well — friend  of  Modene — 
with  clicking  spurs,  and  small-clothes  hanging  straight 
below  his  knees.  Following  upon  his  steps  came  dis 
reputable  Jean-Baptiste  de  I'Hermite,  accompanied  by 
his  more  commendable  brother,  Fran£ois  Tristan  de 
I'Hermite,  fierce  of  moustache,  but  kind  of  heart — a  poet, 
too,  whose  plays  had  been  enacted  by  the  royal  troupe, 
whose  protector  was  Monsieur,  the  brother  of  the  king. 

Soon  the  room  was  filled  with  scented  skirts  and 
ruffled  hauts  de  chausses;  then  came  Marotte  Beaupre 
of  the  Theatre  du  Marais,  a  shapely  beauty  with  defiant 
eyes,  and  hobbling  by  her  side,  little  Vincent  Voiture 
of  gouty  mien  and  pygmy  frame,  his  justaucorps  adorned 
with  ribbons. 

Poet  of  the  world  of  fashion,  Voiture's  advent  sent  a 
thrill  to  every  feminine  heart — Voiture,  f ramer  of  grace 
ful  fleurettes,  and  idol  of  the  Hotel  de  Rambouillet! 
The  hostess  had  met  him  at  Lyons,  when  he  journeyed 
thither  with  the  king  and  she  was  the  favourite  player 
of  a  strolling  troupe;  but  she  owed  the  honour  of  his 
coming  to  the  pretty  actresses  to  be  wooed,  for  little 
Voiture  was  a  gallant  whose  affections  were  catholic. 

"  The  most  distinguished  exquisite  and  the  greatest 
wit  in  France  in  the  rue  de  Thorigny !  "  said  Madeleine, 
courtesying  low.  "  You  honour  me,  monsieur,  beyond  my 
fairest  dreams." 

While   the    painted   lips    of    La    Beaupre    curled    in 


38  FAME'S   PATHWAY 

triumph  at  the  favour  he  had  shown  by  attending  on 
her  steps,  the  old  beau  bent  his  stiffened  waist  and 
pressed  his  jewelled  fingers  to  his  breast. 

"  Ma  f oi !  the  part  of  gallantry  is  to  pay  court  to 
beauty,  and  that  of  wit  to  sing  its  praises;  yet,  were  I 
thrice  what  you  have  said,  I  never  could  do  justice  to 
your  charms,  mademoiselle." 

A  look  of  pleasure  glowed  in  Madeleine's  cheek  and 
she  flung  her  head  back  bewitchingly.  "  Monsieur,  you 
overwhelm  me,  and  yet  such  a  brilliant  compliment  but 
proves  the  truth  of  my  assertion." 

"  Indeed,  the  prince  of  exquisites  and  the  king  of 
wits !  "  said  La  Beaupre,  not  to  be  outdone. 

Madeleine's  smiling  grew  graver. 

"  A  prince,  I  grant ;  and  yet,  my  dear,  how  fast  your 
fancy  gallops,  since  I  must  beg  at  least  a  roundelay 
before  I  hail  him  king." 

The  ladies  crowded  closer;  and  amid  soft  glances  and 
sighs,  the  poet  tried  with  mock  modesty  to  restrain  the 
cry,  "  A  roundelay !  "  Still,  seeing  the  company  eagerly 
awaiting  his  response,  he  struck  a  pensive  attitude,  and 
with  a  well-acted  by-play  of  embarrassment,  adapted 
some  verses  of  his  to  the  occasion,  so  deftly  that  they 
appeared  extemporised  to  these  actresses,  who  did  not 
know  they  had  already  paid  homage  to  a  lady  of  the 
court: 

"Ma  foi!  I  'm  done,  since  pretty  Madeleine 
A  roundelay  to  conjure  from  my  brain 

Has  begged  me,  and  pardi,  I  suffer  sadly. 

Eight  rhymes  in  'ain'  and  likewise  five  in  'adly ! ' 
To  build  a  barque  for  her  were  less  a  strain 

"  However,  there  are  five  without  much  pain, 
So  let  us  make  it  eight,  and  then  attain 
By  strategy  the  ones  we  need  so  badly — 
Ma  foi,  I  'm  done ! " 


A    SALON  OF  VAGABONDIA  39 

He  paused  and  glanced  appealingly  at  his  fair  audi 
tors.  They  sighed  again  and  looked  at  him  tenderly 
from  behind  their  fans,  so  he  smiled  in  pride  and  went 
on: 

"If  now  I  might  invent  a  pretty  chain 
Of  five,  the  sailing  would  be  fairly  plain; 
So  rhyme  eleven  do  I  welcome  gladly. 
The  twelfth  then  follows  on  the  others,  madly, 
The  thirteenth  rhyme  is  easy  to  obtain — 
Ma  f  oi,  I  'm  done !  " 

The  actresses  clapped  their  hands,  a  burst  of  enthu 
siasm  came  from  the  throats  of  humbler  poets,  and  Voi- 
ture  glowed  with  the  applause,  though  he  affected  an 
air  of  indifference. 

"  Long  live  the  king !  "  cried  Madeleine. 

"  A  trifle,  a  mere  trifle,"  the  poet  lisped. 

"  Mon  dieu,"  said  Catherine  Desurlis,  "  a  trifle  car 
ried  to  the  utmost  pitch  of  gallantry.  Thrice  fortunate 
Madeleine,  to  be  the  inspiration !  " 

The  great  man  was,  in  a  way,  chagrined  at  having 
graced  a  company  so  far  beneath  his  quality.  He 
loved  adoration,  but  he  feared  the  scorn  of  the  haughty 
ladies  of  Madame  de  Rambouillet's  blue  room  should  it 
reach  their  ears  that  he  had  been  rhyming  roundelays 
in  a  humble  salon  of  Vagabondia. 

"  He  is  but  a  vintner's  son,"  thought  Madeleine,  gaz 
ing  at  the  poet's  seamed  face,  "  and  yet  he  rules  the 
world  of  art  and  letters.  A  word  from  him  at  court  in 
praise  of  me,  and  my  fortune  were  made."  But  even  as 
these  reflections  came  into  her  mind,  and  the  poet  whose 
heart  had  run  the  gamut  of  love  and  gallantry  basked 
in  a  circle  of  languishing  beauty,  the  door  opened  softly 
and  Joseph,  the  stutterer,  glided  into  the  room  with 


40  FAME'S    PATHWAY 

his  hands  twitching  together  and  his  lip  wrinkled  in  a 
contented  smile. 

Beside  him  walked  a  young  student,  and  Madeleine's 
heart  leaped  and  her  glance  brightened  at  the  sight  of 
him.  When  he  had  come  nearer,  he  pressed  her  hand  to 
his  lips. 

"  Welcome,  monsieur,"  she  said,  looking  straightway 
into  his  godlike  eyes.  "  But  you  were  over  long  in  com 
ing,"  she  added  in  an  even  whisper ;  "  in  truth,  I  should 
be  vexed." 

A  faint  shade  of  colour  burned  in  the  student's  cheek. 

"  Mademoiselle,"  he  faltered,  "  had  I  been  wise,  I 
should  never  have  come." 

The  girl's  eyes  widened  with  surprise. 

"  You  have  scant  courtesy,"  she  said,  yet  understood. 


CHAPTER   V 

AN    HOUR    OF    PARADISE 

IN  the  flare  of  the  candles  Jean-Baptiste  Poquelin  saw 
beautiful  women;  he  heard  soft  laughter  and  sighs,  and 
perfume  was  wafted  to  him  by  the  waving  fans;  but 
his  only  thoughts  were  of  Madeleine  Bejart  beside  him. 
Her  white  hands  were  clasped  together,  and  under  a 
golden  flood  of  hair  he  saw  her  face,  pensive  and  fair; 
after  a  time  she  looked  up  curiously  and  spoke  in  a  low, 
thrilled  voice: 

"  You  have,  in  sooth,  scant  courtesy ;  and  yet  your 
action  of  the  other  day  would  indicate  a  chivalrous 
heart." 

"  Do  not  think,  mademoiselle,  I  am  ungracious ;  but 
is  it  wise  for  a  mortal  to  venture  into  the  presence  of  a 
goddess  ?  " 

"  Such  gallantry  would  do  credit  to  Monsieur  Voi- 
ture,"  she  vouchsafed,  and  her  glance  travelled  toward 
the  poet  of  the  ruelles.  For  a  moment  she  stood  looking 
at  this  young  man  who  had  interested  her  so  strangely. 
A  curious  face,  she  thought,  with  its  shaggy,  dark  eye 
brows,  its  big  nose  and  mouth — a  face  to  provoke  laugh 
ter,  were  it  not  for  the  fire-like  glance. 

"  Monsieur,"  she  said  suddenly,  "  you  have  too  serious 
an  air  to  be  a  gallant.  Did  you  speak  truthfully  when 
you  said  it  were  wise  if  you  had  not  come  ?  " 

She  was  very  close  and  her  eyes  burned  through  him. 

"  I  did,  mademoiselle,"  he  answered  in  a  deep  breath. 
Trembling  at  his  daring,  he  turned  and  walked  slowly 

41 


42  FAME'S    PATHWAY 

across  the  scented  room,  and  she,  not  caring  to  restrain 
him,  drew  out  a  chair  and  sank  back  upon  it.  Although 
the  love  of  men  had  been  a  parcel  of  her  daily  life, 
never  before  had  she  seen  such  fervour  in  a  glance. 

Standing  in  a  shadow  of  a  doorway,  her  brother 
Joseph  had  overheard  the  words  passed  between  his 
sister  and  the  student.  Stepping  stealthily  to  her  side, 
he  whispered :  '"  The  1-1-lad  has  a  passion  for  the  stage. 
His  f-f-father  is  an  upholsterer  to  the  king  and  well-to- 
do.  If  you  are  clever,  m-m-my  dear,  he  might  join  our 
r-r-ranks." 

White  and  trembling,  Madeleine  glanced  up  at  him. 

"  I  am  not  a  wanton,"  she  said,  a  look  of  anger  in 
her  clear  blue  eyes;  then  a  quick  impulse  seized  her,  and 
leaving  her  seat,  she  followed  on  the  young  man's  steps. 

"  Monsieur/'  she  called,  "  I  wish  to  ask  a  favour." 

He  turned  suddenly  upon  the  beautiful  supplicant. 

"  A  favour  ?  "  he  repeated  in  wonderment. 

She  bent  her  head  to  him,  and  the  silence  that  fol 
lowed  was  broken  by  her  sweet  voice:  "  You  are  right, 
monsieur;  you  should  not  have  come,  and  I  ask  as  a 
favour  that  you  will  go." 

From  his  lips  there  arose  a  cry  of  pain.  "  I  came  at 
your  bidding,  mademoiselle,"  he  said,  when  he  could 
speak. 

Looking  into  his  face,  she  questioned  him:  "  And 
will  you  not  go  at  my  entreaty  ?  " 

"  I  will  go  at  your  command,"  he  faltered,  while  his 
eyes  turned  in  worship  to  her  beauty. 

"  If  it  were  wise  not  to  come,"  she  answered,  "  surely 
it  is  wise  to  go." 

"  You  mean  it  is  kind  to  ask  me  to  go." 

She   answered   his  thoughts   rather   than   his   words. 


AN    HOUR   OF   PARADISE  43 

"  Monsieur,  my  brother  has  told  me  that  your  father  is 
a  well-to-do  bourgeois  of  Paris — an  upholsterer  to  the 
king." 

She  paused  and  he  bowed  assent. 

"  He  tells  me  also  that  you  have  a  passion  for  the 
theatre  and  he  wished  me  to  urge  you  to  join  our  hum 
ble  troupe." 

"  Ah,  if  you  would  only  let  me,  mademoiselle,"  he 
pleaded,  his  heart  full  of  joy  at  the  thought  of  pleasing 
her.  The  girl  looked  at  him  thoughtfully,  then  shook 
her  fair  head. 

"  Nay,  monsieur,  you  owe  a  duty  to  yourself ;  for  when 
you  came  to-night,  you  felt  that  you  were  doing  wrong. 
Believe  me,  it  is  not  alone  the  first  step  that  costs,  but 
every  step.  I  am  older  than  you,  and  I  know  the  world 
better,  and  looking  deep  into  your  heart  just  now,  I 
understood.  I  have  been  very  frank,  my  friend." 

As  the  light  of  the  candles  filled  her  soft  eyes  and 
glistened  on  her  pleading  lips,  a  deep  tide  of  despair 
swept  through  him. 

"  Ah,  let  me  remain,"  he  begged.  "  One  hour  is  all 
I  ask." 

He  had  come  into  her  life  at  a  moment  when  its 
burden  seemed  unbearable,  when  her  heart  cried  out  for 
sympathy,  and  something  in  his  voice  had  touched  her 
more  than  any  words  she  had  ever  heard  uttered.  Look 
ing  into  the  infinite  future,  it  seemed  that  in  some  way 
his  destiny  was  linked  with  hers,  and  when  she  spoke, 
a  look  of  tenderness  lurked  in  her  glance. 

"  I  have  not  the  heart  to  refuse,  monsieur.  I  pray 
you  may  never  reproach  me,"  and  the  delicate  fire  which 
fluttered  in  her  heart  stole  up  to  burn  unrebuked  in  her 
face. 


44  FAME'S   PATHWAY 

"  Reproach  you ! "  he  cried,  "  for  giving  me  an  hour 
of  paradise  ?  " 

The  guests  had  paused  to  stare  at  the  strange  young 
man  who  stood  before  the  hostess,  eager  and  flushed,  as 
though  waiting  to  see  which  way  the  wheel  of  his  for 
tune  might  spin;  and  when  he  caught  her  hand  and 
kissed  it  ardently,  a  titter  ran  round  the  room  from  the 
lips  of  the  actresses. 

"  Fair  Madeleine  is  in  love,"  trilled  La  Beaupre. 

"  It  is  the  youth  who  created  such  a  fracas  at  the 
theatre,"  said  Genevieve  Bejart. 

"  A  strange  choice,  diantre !  "  shrugged  Marie  Cour- 
tin,  her  dark  eyes  flashing  merriment.  "  The  fellow 
will  never  be  hanged  for  his  beauty." 

Modene  stood  playing  with  the  drooping  plumes 
upon  his  broad-leafed  hat.  He  saw  the  light  that 
flamed  in  Madeleine's  eyes,  and  the  thought  came  to 
him  that  the  role  of  magnanimity  would  be  a  wise 
part. 

"  My  dear  lady,"  he  said,  when  the  laughter  which 
followed  on  Marie  Courtin's  words  had  hushed,  "  love 
dwells  in  the  heart,  not  the  face." 

"Ah,  but  the  eyes  give  love  expression,"  the  sou- 
brette  sighed,  with  a  languishing  glance  into  his  own. 

"  Sacrebleu !  "  he  answered,  "  if  it  is  a  question  of 
eyes,  the  youth  is  well  favoured.  As  for  his  heart,  I 
answer  for  it." 

Marie  Courtin  laughed  again,  until  her  merriment 
found  words: 

"  You  called  him  a  rattle-brain  once.  If  you  are  so 
changeable  as  to  men,  what  may  a  woman  expect  ?  " 

Bending  his  curled  head,  the  courtier  smiled  on  her 
benignly.  "  The  same  treatment,  mademoiselle,  for 


AN    HOUR   OF   PARADISE  45 

have  I  not  laid  my  heart  at  your  feet  when  once  it  was 
at  Madeleine's?  If  you  do  not  wish  it,  pray  give  it 
back." 

The  girl  pouted  her  pretty  lips. 

"  I  shall  keep  the  bauble  till  I  tire  of  it,  and  mayhap 
I  '11  steal  the  youth's  heart  as  well." 

"  Ladies,  was  there  ever  such  greed  ?  "  said  Modene, 
with  a  sweep  of  his  broad  hat  towards  the  galaxy  of 
eyes  about  him.  "  Mademoiselle  de  la  Dehors  is  not 
content  at  having  made  me  her  slave  but  must  begrudge 
poor  Madeleine  her  impetuous  friend.  A  veritable  dog 
in  the  manger,  say  I !  "  And  turning  on  his  heel,  he 
strode  away,  leaving  a  look  of  anxiety  in  the  soubrette's 
face. 

Her  scurrilous  husband,  who  had  been  stealthily 
watching  the  interview,  whispered  encouragingly,  "  Fear 
not,  my  dear ;  he  loves  you !  " 

Angrily  she  turned  on  her  lord:  "  Thanks  to  thy 
footless  intrigues  I  was  imprisoned  with  thee  at  Vin- 
cennes  as  thy  accomplice.  This  present  affair  is  mine 
own.  I  need  no  accomplices  and  I  promise  a  more 
profitable  outcome." 

Dreading  his  consort's  tongue  and  respecting  her 
ability,  Jean-Baptiste  de  1'Hermite  was  restrained  to 
silence.  The  meanwhile,  Modene,  the  object  of  this 
abominable  conspiracy,  walked  tranquilly  away.  Too 
proud  to  admit  defeat  at  Madeleine's  hands,  he  had 
preferred  to  give  a  public  triumph  to  Marie  Courtin; 
and  now  to  carry  on  the  part  he  had  conceived  to  be 
that  of  cleverness,  he  went  straightway  to  the  young 
man,  standing  with  Madeleine  at  the  buffet,  and  extended 
his  hand  graciously. 

"  Monsieur,"   he   said  without  malice,   "  some   words 


46  FAME'S   PATHWAY 

passed  between  us  the  other  day  -which  were  over-hasty 
on  my  part.  Let  me  make  amends  by  touching  glasses 
with  you  in  a  toast  to  our  hostess." 

Jean-Baptiste  would  have  touched  glasses  with  the 
devil,  so  entranced  was  he.  "  To  the  fairest  lady  in 
France !  "  he  cried.  There  were  fancies  enough  in  his 
brain  for  a  garland  of  verses,  yet  these  trite  words 
were  all  his  tongue  could  utter;  shamed  by  his  own 
incompetency,  he  stood  with  downcast  eyes  while 
Modene  answered  him: 

"  A  toast  for  all  Frenchmen,  since  the  fairest  lady 
must  be  each  man's  mistress."  Turning  to  Madeleine 
with  scorn  in  his  glance,  he  added,  "  I  leave  it  to 
mademoiselle  to  divine  whether  or  not  we  both  drink 
to  her." 

She  looked  at  him  quite  fearlessly.  "  He  loves  most," 
she  replied,  "who  talks  least,  as  the  Spanish  proverb 
says." 

Modene  thrust  his  face  close  to  the  young  student's 
and  laughed.  "  Mademoiselle  would  have  love  dumb ; 
I  know  it  to  be  blind;  no  doubt  in  the  case  of  one  so 
young  as  you,  it  has  lost  all  five  senses." 

Dislike  of  Modene  rankled  within  Jean-Baptiste's 
breast  and  a  sense  of  shame  at  his  own  stupidity  as 
well.  Voiture,  too,  came  tripping  toward  him,  fal 
lowed  by  a  troop  of  adulatory  ladies  with  rustling 
gowns  and  fluttering  fans.  The  foppish  poet  and  his 
arrogance,  together  with  Modene's  ill-veiled  contempt, 
aroused  a  spirit  of  bravado  within  his  heart.  Inspired 
by  Madeleine's  sweet  glance,  he  struck  an  affected 
attitude  and  began  to  recite,  while  satirising  the 
affected  manner  of  the  day,  these  verses  he  had  penned 
at  school: 


AN    HOUR    OF   PARADISE  47 

Love  knows  no  laws,  and  listens  to  no  voice; 

Each  lover  ardently  extols  his  choice, 

Sees  nothing  blamable  through  passion's  glance — 

E'en  imperfections  will  his  love  enhance; 

Defects  assume  sweet  names  on  his  fond  lip, 

And  are  acclaimed  to  be  God's  workmanship! 

Too  pale  is  she?    Not  so!  she  's  jasmine-white; 

And  goodly  brown  the  damsel  dark  as  night. 

The  lean  is  pliant,  lithe,  and  debonair; 

The  portly  dame  treads  with  majestic  air. 

Though  neatness  is  perforce  a  maiden's  duty, 

The  slattern  is  appraised  a  careless  beauty. 

A  goddess  in  each  giantess  inheres; 

Epitome  of  joy  the  dwarf  appears. 

The  haughty  one  a  diadem  should  crown; 

The  shrew  is  droll;  the  fool  with  ne'er  a  frown. 

The  chatterbox  is  kindly  hearted  e'er, 

And  modestly  reserved  the  speechless  fair. 

Each  fault  the  maid  beloved  may  afford, 

Each  frailty — new  charms  to  be  adored! 

Madeleine  was  mightily  pleased,  above  all  by  the 
lad's  declaiming  so  in  the  spirit  of  subtle  comedy  that 
Voiture  failed  to  see  himself  and  his  affected  coterie 
satirised.  When  the  rhymer  had  finished,  the  old  beau, 
who  had  curled  a  lean  hand  behind  his  ear  in  order  that 
he  might  better  hear  the  lines,  nodded  his  head  and 
muttered  beneath  his  breath,  "  Not  bad ! "  A  faint 
burst  of  applause  came,  too,  from  the  lips  of  the 
actresses  and  humbler  poets  who  had  crowded  round. 
The  young  man,  finding  himself  the  centre  of  attraction, 
grew  ashamed  of  his  youthful  presumption,  and  to  hide 
his  embarrassment,  turned  to  the  buffet.  While  he 
drained  a  goblet  of  wine,  the  old  poet  sidled  toward 
him. 

"  You   recite    fairly   well,   my   young   sir.     I    rather 


48  FAME'S    PATHWAY 

fancy  the  verses  too,  yet  I  confess  I  cannot  recall  the 
author." 

Jean-Baptiste  looked  up  at  Voiture  swiftly. 

"  I  wrote  them  myself,  monsieur,  but  they  were  in 
spired  by  Lucretius." 

"  Oh/'  grunted  the  beau,  his  face  a  study  in  surprise ; 
then  he  muttered,  "  not  bad  doggerel  for  a  novice." 

But  Madeleine,  who  stood  listening,  flashed  scorn. 
"  Not  bad  doggerel  indeed,  since  it  rings  like  the  verse 
of  Corneille  in  lighter  vein !  Ah,  but  I  forgot  that  you 
academicians  once  condemned  '  The  Cid  '  !  " 

Jean-Baptiste's  heart  leaped  wildly  then,  for  he  saw 
the  poet  of  fashion  abashed  and  astonishment  in  the 
faces  of  the  listeners,  but  before  he  could  find  words 
to  thank  her,  Madeleine  had  begun  to  regret  her 
temerity. 

"  Monsieur  Voiture,  of  course,  alone  can  judge  of 
verse,"  she  said  hurriedly  in  a  conciliatory  tone. 

The  poet  clasped  his  hand  across  his  breast  and 
bowed.  "  Time  alone  can  judge  of  verse,  mademoi 
selle." 

But  Madeleine's  outburst  had  nettled  him,  so  he 
turned  abruptly  to  the  feminine  court  that  followed  in 
his  train  and  continued,  loud  enough  to  command  the 
attention  of  the  room,  a  recital  he  had  been  giving  of  an 
excursion  once  taken  with  some  ladies  of  the  court: 

"  As  I  was  saying,  my  fair  auditors,  before  this 
interruption  to  my  story,  we  passed  through  superb 
gardens  where  the  paths  were  strewn  with  roses  and 
orange  blossoms,  and  at  the  end  of  an  entrancing  alley, 
we  came  upon  a  fountain  which  jetted  more  sprays 
than  all  the  streams  of  Tivoli.  The  strains  of  violins 
mingled  with  the  falling  waters,  and  in  the  niche  of  a 


AN    HOUR    OF    PARADISE  49 

marble  palisade,  we  discovered  a  young  Diana,  more 
beautiful  than  the  forests  of  Greece  and  Thessaly  had 
ever  beheld.  With  an  indescribable  grace  she  darted 
among  us,  as  we  approached,  and  inaugurated  a  dance 
at  the  base  of  the  fountain,  in  which  the  ladies  and 
cavaliers  joined." 

The  old  coxcomb  seemed  tired  after  so  much  breath, 
and  with  a  languid  air,  he  paused  to  wave  his  berib- 
boned  cane  above  the  fluttering  fans.  "  When  the 
dancers  wearied,"  he  went  on,  "  I  seized  a  harp  and 
sang  a  Spanish  love  song  and  my  voice  was  so  melodious 
and  sorrowful  that  the  eyes  of  every  person  there  were 
filled  with  tears." 

So  pleased  with  the  exuberance  of  his  words  that  he 
forgot  his  auditors  were  but  social  castaways,  the  great 
Voiture  drew  breath  once  more  and  awaited  their  Ian- 
guishments.  Although  his  frail  listeners  might  not  be 
able  to  sit  enthroned  on  silken  couches  while  their 
ruelles  swarmed  with  gallants  of  the  court,  they  might, 
at  least,  envy  the  high  priestesses  of  fashion  and  far 
surpass  them  in  flourishes  and  bows  and  precious  verbi 
age.  Indeed,  the  precieuse  seemed  the  only  role  to  be 
enacted  in  the  presence  of  the  little  arbiter  of  culture. 

"  My  heart  will  ever  float  in  a  sea  of  memories  of  the 
charms  of  such  entrancing  phraseology,"  carolled  La 
Beaupre,  with  a  courtesy  to  the  floor. 

"  Never  have  my  ears  inclined  to  so  supreme  a  painter 
of  expression,"  sighed  Madelon  Malingre. 

"  In  truth,  such  diction  dampens  the  orbs  of  my 
vision,"  languished  Catherine  Desurlis,  not  to  be  out 
done;  and  the  three  actresses  wavered  their  fans  and 
rolled  their  eyes  heavenward  in  unison. 

Vincent  Voiture,  who  had  but  to  show  himself  in  a 


50  FAME'S   PATHWAY 

great  lady's  house  to  assure  her  reputation,  ogling 
unimportant  actresses!  thought  Jean-Baptiste  Poquelin, 
who  stood  marvelling  at  this  precious  exhibition.  A 
roue's  passion  for  the  sex  might  explain  this  condescen 
sion;  but  that  a  man  of  talent  should  flit  about  Paris 
with  a  beribboned  stick  to  entertain  cajoling  women 
seemed  indeed  ignoble. 

"  Whether  the  petticoat  adulation  obtains  in  the  rue 
St.  Thomas  du  Louvre,  or  here  without  the  pale,  matters 
not,"  he  mused ;  "  for  is  it  not  the  duty  of  a  man  of 
letters  to  maintain  a  godlike  independence  of  the  world? 
Yet  in  Paris,"  he  sighed,  "  poets  are  little  better  than 
domestics.  A  man  may  have  one  in  his  house  for  the 
pleasure  the  intrinsic  value  gives  his  pride;  a  lady  may 
use  one  to  heighten  her  repose  in  hours  of  leisure  just 
as  if  he  were  a  piece  of  furniture.  Clement  Marot, 
Ronsard,  and  Malherbe,  each  had  been  proud  to  be  a 
fitting  in  some  palace  of  the  great.  This  foppish 
Voiture,  too,  with  his  ribbons  and  his  curls,  this  vint 
ner's  son,  whose  cleverness  has  made  him  arbiter  of 
letters,  another  piece  of  furniture,  a  footstool !  " 

Marvelling  thus  upon  this  base  employment  for  a 
man  of  talent,  his  thoughts  recurred  to  Guillot-Gor j  u's 
story  of  an  actor's  life.  Outcasts  they  might  be,  those 
strolling  players,  outcasts  denied  the  right  of  Christian 
burial;  but  they  were  at  liberty  to  roam  through  France, 
the  free-born  children  of  their  art  and  fancy.  With  a 
hand  tightly  clasped  on  his  breast,  his  glance  roved  in 
defiance  of  beribboned  Voiture  and  the  fawning  women, 
of  the  lean  and  cringing  poetasters,  too;  for,  young 
though  he  was,  he  looked  upon  these  creatures  with 
contempt. 


CHAPTER  VI 

A   BEING   DIFFERENT   FROM    THE    REST 

HE  stood  among  the  ribbons  and  the  fans,  a  being 
different  from  the  rest,  it  seemed  to  Madeleine  Bejart, 
watching  him  intently;  and  while  her  glance  roamed 
about  the  lighted  room,  with  its  odour  of  frangipane 
arrd  its  painted  women,  she  fell  to  thinking  of  the  verses 
he  had  spoken.  They  were  more  graceful  than  Voiture's 
roundelay,  she  thought,  and  judged  by  the  canons  of 
her  own  poor  art,  his  manner  of  declaiming  them  was 
clever  comedy. 

He  had  talent,  she  perceived,  but  his  life  had  been 
cast  in  a  dull  mould  where  he  could  only  rust.  Had  it 
been  wise,  she  asked  herself,  or  even  just,  to  try  to  turn 
him  from  his  bent  when  she  might  shape  his  destiny 
and  brighten  it  ?  Seeing  the  look  of  an  inward  struggle 
in  his  eyes,  she  knew  she  had  never  beheld  a  face  at 
once  so  sensitive  and  so  purposeful. 

"  He  has  the  courage  of  a  man,"  she  thought,  "  the 
tenderness  of  a  woman;  and  if  I  mistake  not,  the  soul 
of  an  artist  lies  within  his  breast.  Ah,  then  it  were  a 
crime  to  curb  his  ardour  for  the  stage,  his  love  for  me." 
Thinking  thus,  she  crept  beside  him,  and  as  he  did  not 
notice  her,  she  moved  a  little  nearer  and  spoke  in  a 
gentle  voice. 

"Will  you  not  come  with  me,  monsieur?  I  wish  to 
talk  with  you." 

She  was  very  close;  she  waited.  He  looked  into  her 
face  but  did  not  speak. 

61 


52  FAME'S    PATHWAY 

"  Are  you  afraid  ?  "  she  asked. 

"  I  am  afraid  my  hour  is  ended,"  he  answered  in  a 
hoarse  whisper, — "  my  hour  of  paradise." 

"  Then  let  this  other  hour  be  mine." 

She  seized  a  mantle,  and  smiling  divinely,  she  led  him 
away,  and  he  followed,  not  knowing  where,  not  daring 
to  ask.  He  heard  the  faint  creaking  of  a  door,  and 
from  the  lights  he  passed  into  the  night  and  stood  beside 
her  in  a  garden.  Fleecy  clouds  hung  motionless  in  the 
December  sky,  the  winds  were  still,  and  in  the  shadowy 
night  he  saw  leafless  branches;  the  moon  was  low  but 
its  pale  fire  came  flowing  through  a  rent  in  the  house 
tops  to  kindle  her  lifted  face  and  her  golden  hair. 

"  I  have  been  thinking  of  you,"  she  said.  "  There  is 
something  I  wish  to  ask." 

He  saw  her  lustrous  eyes,  her  parted  lips.  "  If  you 
ask  for  the  stars,  mademoiselle,  I  should  rob  the  firma 
ment  for  you." 

"  Leave  gallantry  to  the  foppish  poets,"  she  answered 
with  impatience.  "  What  I  fain  would  know  is  where 
you  learned  to  write  verses,  and  to  speak  them  so  well." 

For  a  moment  he  was  silent  and  stood  looking  into 
the  night. 

"  There  is  a  dear  old  philosopher,"  he  said  at  last, 
"  with  whom  I  studied :  Pierre  Gassendi,  a  champion  of 
Epicurus.  He  taught  me  to  love  beautiful  thoughts, 
and  often,  as  we  strolled  together  when  the  lessons  of 
the  day  were  ended,  he  recited  Latin  verses.  In  that 
way,  I  learned  to  love  Lucretius;  and  loving  him,  I 
wrote  the  poor  and  halting  lines  you  heard  me  speak." 

When  she  spoke  there  was  sympathy  in  her  voice. 
"I  think  I  understand  you  better;  yet  tell  me  further 
of  yourself." 


DIFFERENT    FROM    THE    REST      53 

"  In  truth,  there  is  little  to  tell.  I  am  nearly 
twenty-one  years  of  age,  and  my  father  is  a  bourgeois 
with  the  prejudices  of  his  class.  He  wished  to  appren 
tice  me  to  his  trade,  but  I  rebelled;  in  consequence,  I 
am  a  student  of  the  laws.  Alas!  I  fear  the  smell  of 
musty  books  is  quite  as  stifling  to  my  nostrils  as  the 
odour  of  upholstery  and  glue." 

There  was  something  like  pity  in  the  girl's  eyes,  but 
a  smile  lingered  on  her  lips. 

"  My  father  is  a  bourgeois  of  Paris  too,"  she  said, 
"  and  I  should  have  been  a  housewife,  yet  I  could  not 
live  without  ideals,  without  ambition,  hence  I  joined  a 
band  of  strolling  players." 

"  You  acted  wisely ! "  he  exclaimed.  "  Ah,  never 
could  you  have  been  happy  in  that  narrow  life !  " 

"  Nay,  I  am  not  sure.  Oftentimes  it  seems  to  me  that 
only  dull  clowns  are  ever  happy." 

He  drew  a  little  nearer.  His  eyes  were  eager  and 
there  was  eagerness  in  the  tones  of  his  voice. 

"  You  say  what  you  think  will  make  me  content,"  he 
whispered.  "  Pray  let  me  believe  I  am  immortal 
to-night." 

"  And  let  to-morrow  tell  of  to-morrow's  story  ?  " 

He  caught  fire  from  her  words. 

"  If  I  were  to  die  to-morrow,"  he  cried,  "  I  should 
tell  you  to-night " 

"  Hush,"  she  said,  smiling,  with  a  finger  on  her  lips ; 
"  this  is  my  hour,  remember,  not  yours." 

He  turned  away,  a  secret  trembling  possessing  him, 
which  she  felt  rather  than  saw  while  she  eyed  him  in 
silence  for  a  second  time. 

"  Pray  tell  me,  are  you  an  only  son  ?  "  she  asked  after 
a  moment. 


54s  FAME'S    PATHWAY 

"  I  have  one  brother  living,  a  sister,  and  a  half-sister," 
he  said,  "  but  they  all  favour  my  father.  My  mother, 
whom  I  dearly  loved,  is  dead,  and  likewise  my  step 
mother.  Alas!  there  is  no  one  in  my  family  to  sym 
pathise  with  my  ambitions !  " 

"  We  are  all  ne'er-do-weels,"  she  answered,  "  my 
brother  Joseph,  my  sister  Genevieve,  and  I.  We  have  a 
brother  Louis,  too,  a  lad  of  twelve,  who  swears  he  will  be 
an  actor,  and  a  baby  sister  a  few  weeks  old — Heaven 
alone  knows  what  she  will  be.  My  father  is  a  respect 
able  court  crier  of  the  grand  mastership  of  the  streams 
and  forests  of  the  king.  Poor  father !  he  is  very  ill  and 
very  poor.  What  a  trial  we  must  be  to  him!  Alas! 
even  my  mother  vexes  him  at  times." 

"  Mademoiselle !  "  he  cried  in  protest,  "  you  are  only 
making  sport  of  me.  This  commonplace  talk  is  to  make 
me  realise  my  youth.  Ah,  what  matters  it  whether  you 
have  brothers  and  sisters  or  I  am  an  only  son  or 
not?  I  am  eating  my  heart  out  and  the  taste  is  very 
bitter." 

She  was  a  girl  of  nearly  five-and-twenty  to  this  young 
man's  barely  one-and-twenty,  and  she  saw  that  she  held 
his  destiny  in  the  hollow  of  her  hand.  He  had  let  his 
heart  be  stolen,  he  could  reason  only  through  her,  and 
was  it  kind  to  make  him  a  vagabond?  God  had  made 
her  soul  a  fair  place  but  fate  had  dragged  her  into 
unworthy  arms;  knowing  this,  she  could  not  bring  him 
to  her  level.  Ever  since  their  strange  meeting  at  the 
theatre  she  had  been  building  bright  castles  in  Spain, 
but  now  she  was  to  tumble  them  down;  now  she  was  to 
hurt  him.  What  was  to  become  of  her,  the  chatelaine 
of  all  these  goodly  keeps,  when  he,  the  lord  of  the 
manor,  was  banished?  Generous  girl,  she  never  thought 


DIFFERENT    FROM    THE    REST      55 

of  that!  She  thought  only  of  the  similarity  of  their 
early  lives — this  young  man's  and  her  own.  She  had 
had  the  courage  to  break  from  the  prejudice  which  had 
held  them  both  in  bondage,  but  her  reward  had  been  a 
bitterness  far  greater  than  that  his  heart  cried  out 
against.  Nay,  he  must  go  to  the  upholsterer,  his 
father,  and  she  must  speed  him.  She  laughed,  and  the 
music  of  her  laughter  seemed  to  awake  faint  echoes 
among  the  leafless  branches. 

"Merciful  heavens!"  she  cried,  "how  very  young 
you  are !  " 

Her  raillery  jarred  and  caused  his  eyes  to  flash 
anger. 

"  Yes,"  he  answered  her  bitterly,  "  the  young  may 
love,  and  repent  when  their  beards  are  grey." 

She  thought  of  what  ambition  in  him  must  be  quelled, 
what  hope  of  her  own.  "  Ah,  cannot  you  see,  monsieur, 
that  I  wish  you  to  go?  I  am  in  a  generous  mood  this 
night." 

For  some  time  their  eyes  were  fixed  each  on  the 
other,  Madeleine's  misty,  his  intensely  searching.  Deep 
in  his  heart  was  an  ideal  woman  far  different  from  this 
strolling  actress  as  he  knew  her  then,  and  duty  arose, 
a  demon,  to  taunt  him.  He  loved  her,  yet  feared  she 
was  but  the  symbol  of  his  love,  since  he  loved  not  her 
alone  but  all  that  is  beautiful.  In  the  dim  light  he 
saw  her  fair  profile,  the  shining  hair  that  curled  about 
her  neck;  trembling  with  fear  and  ecstasy,  he  knelt  be 
fore  her  and  caught  her  hand. 

"  Dear  lady,  help  my  tormented  heart,"  he  cried, 
"  for  I  cannot.  Ah,  ever  since  I  first  beheld  you  I 
have  thought  only  of  you." 

"  Remember  I  am  like  other  women  of  my  calling," 


56  FAME'S   PATHWAY 

she  said  at  last,  for  she  could  find  only  compassion  in 
her  heart. 

"  Let  me  share  your  life,"  he  begged ;  "  I  shall  be 
content  as  the  humblest  member  of  your  company." 

"  Nay,  my  dear  friend,"  she  answered,  though  the 
words  came  bitterly  from  her. 

"  You  think  you  are  doing  me  a  kindness,"  he  pleaded, 
"  yet  you  are  condemning  me  to  torture." 

Better  far  had  she  been  a  wanton,  she  thought,  a 
piece  of  dalliance,  a  pastime;  for  then  it  were  a  delight 
to  wrench  from  this  young  man's  heart  such  love  and 
caresses  as  she  might.  But  she  was  a  girl  of  generous 
impulse,  a  girl  with  a  charitable  part  to  play — though 
these  qualities  cost  her  dear. 

"  If  I  were  wholly  bad,"  she  smiled  through  the  tears 
she  could  not  withhold,  "  I  would  take  the  love  you 
proffer." 

He  slowly  raised  himself  from  where  he  knelt.  "Ah, 
must  I  leave  you?  "  he  asked  in  a  low,  urgent  voice,  as 
one  who  asks  if  there  were  need. 

"  Yes,"  she  answered ;  "  for  your  sake,  if  not  mine 
own." 

Bewildered,  *he  came  towards  her;  while  she,  worn 
frail  by  the  strife,  stood  fearing  she  had  not  the 
strength  to  deny  him — nor  the  desire. 

"  And  if  I  cannot  forget  ?""  he  murmured,  dazed. 

"  If  I  listen,"  she  said,  "  the  day  must  come  when  you 
will  long  to  wipe  out  the  step  I  had  let  you  take — then 
I  shall  be  the  sufferer,  not  you." 

Brooding  over  her  beauty,  he  watched  her  for  a  time, 
wild  memories  crowding  on  his  brain — the  theatre,  the 
eager  multitude.  He  saw  her  in  the  candle  glare — her 
gold-shot  hair — yet  side  by  side  with  the  enchanting 


DIFFERENT   FROM    THE    REST      57 

vision  wns  his  father,  stern  and  cold,  turning  him  from 
his  door — an  outcast.  So  his  dream  of  her  passed  in  a 
sigh  and  a  flash!  Her  words  were  his  own  thoughts, 
and  she  seemed  inspired — an  angel  waiting  with  a 
flaming  torch  to  point  the  way.  But  deceitful  youth 
that  lures  us  on  to  joys,  to  perils,  to  futile  effort,  always 
searching  for  the  love  that,  while  it  is  expected,  has 
already  passed,  vain  youth,  that  feels  it  can  outlast  all 
men-^-thrilled  in  his  heart  and  whispered,  "  She  is 
merely  a  painted  actress  carolling  her  siren's  song." 

As  if  to  awake  him  from  this  wild  and  incoherent 
reverie,  the  door  behind  them  opened  and  the  perfume 
of  her  scented  hair  was  wafted  to  him.  In  the  flood  of 
light  behind  her,  he  saw  the  lithe  curve  of  her  body; 
and  bewildered  by  the  mystery  of  sex,  afraid  of  her, 
afraid  of  himself,  yet  mad  with  a  desire  he  could  not 
quell,  he  clasped  her  in  his  arms;  then  with  the  tremor 
of  her  kiss  upon  his  lips,  ran  headlong  from  her  garden, 
ashamed,  exalted,  not  daring  to  look  back. 

She  bowed  her  head  when  he  went,  and  watched  him 
without  the  strength  to  move  her  lips  and  recall  him; 
then,  hearing  a  familiar  step  behind  her,  she  closed  her 
eyes  instinctively  against  a  hateful  face. 

"  Gone  ?  "  said  Modene's  voice. 

"  Gone.,"  she  answered,  her  tears  streaming  freely. 


CHAPTER  VII 

A    DAY    FOR    JOYOUSNESS 

To  live  in  a  musty  shop  from  dawn  till  night,  stuffing 
chairs  with  wool,  truckling  to  the  whims  of  customers, 
while  the  sun  was  shining  on  bright  Paris  and  the  streets 
were  filled  with  people,  was  repellent  to  the  love  of  life 
that  thrilled  within  Jean-Baptiste.  But  he  could  not 
reproach  his  father  with  severity.  While  his  brother 
toiled  in  the  upholstery  shop,  he,  the  first-born,  had  been 
sent  to  school  among  his  betters.  There  he  had  envied 
the  children  of  the  mighty;  envied  one  handsome,  head 
strong,  little  chap  in  particular,  who  came  escorted  by  a 
retinue  of  flunkeys  in  peach-coloured  liveries. 

Because  this  boy  was  Armand  de  Bourbon,  Prince  de 
Conti,  a  cousin  of  the  king,  he  was  rushed  through  his 
humanities  by  the  time-serving  Jesuit  masters  and 
passed  in  philosophy  before  he  had  well  digested  the 
alphabet.  To  be  born  a  prince!  thought  Jean-Baptiste. 
Ah,  what  a  chance  had  that  little  sprig  of  royalty !  But 
unless  made  of  a  different  piece  from  his  kin,  his 
thoughts  were  already  of  horses,  dogs,  and  mistresses. 

Jean-Baptiste  had  escaped  the  base  shop  life  of  his 
brother,  and  felt  that  he  should  thank  his  stars.  But 
a  longing  to  achieve,  to  conquer,  filled  his  heart;  an 
insatiable  love  of  life  and  beauty. 

The  day  arrived  when  a  philosopher  taught  him  Epi 
curus  and  the  beauties  of  Lucretius.  The  world  took 
on  brighter  hues,  until  the  day  arrived  when  he  saw 

58 


A   DAY    FOR   jJOYOUSNESS  59 

Madeleine,  dazzling  and  beautiful  in  the  candle  glare. 
Love  came  then,  a  torrent  to  overwhelm  him,  and  with 
it  a  sense  of  shame  and  dismay.  In  his  saner  mind,  he 
saw  the  real  Madeleine — a  woman  older  than  himself, 
a  strolling  actress  whose  life  was  far  from  blameless. 
After  the  frenzied  moment  when  he  fled  from  her  house, 
days  passed  and  even  weeks;  but,  though  he  longed  to 
hold  her  in  his  arms  once  more,  he  dared  not  go  to  her. 
Fear  and  duty  held  him,  like  a  trembling  hound,  in  leash. 

Had  he  listened  to  his  wiser  self,  it  had  been  well  with 
him;  but  he  did  not.  The  struggle  fretted  him  to  dis 
traction.  He  grew  angry  when  he  should  have  been 
more  calm — calm  with  his  brother  and  his  shop-ridden 
ways,  with  his  father  when  he  cringed  to  testy  pur 
chasers,  with  his  stupid  sisters  for  yawning  at  their 
knitting.  He  could  find  but  contempt  in  his  heart  for 
witless  relatives,  callous  to  everything  but  sous  of  profit. 
When  his  brother  spoke,  he  answered  him  gruffly,  or  not 
at  all;  and  he,  being  of  a  dull  sort,  shook  his  head, 
thinking  Jean-Baptiste  had  some  maggot  in  the  brain. 

Finding  his  first-born  thus  churlish,  his  father  be 
rated  him  soundly  for  an  ungrateful  son. 

"Have  I  not  lavished  hard-earned  means  on  thee?" 
the  elder  Poquelin  urged.  "  Thou  hast  been  to  the 
most  expensive  school  in  Paris!  Thou  hast  wasted  thy 
time  philosophising  with  a  learned  doctor,  and  now  thou 
makest  but  a  pretence  of  studying  the  laws.  Fie,  my 
son,  fie  upon  thee  for  a  scapegrace !  Thy  brother  Jean 
is  an  industrious  lad  and  far  more  worthy  than  thou  to 
uphold  a  fair  name  and  receive  the  reversion  of  the 
honourable  employment  I  hold  at  court." 

"  I  care  nought  for  making  the  king's  bed,"  answered 
Jean-Baptiste  haughtily ;  "  but  give  to  me  the  inherit- 


60  FAME'S    PATHWAY 

ance  my  dear  mother  bequeathed  to  me ;  then  may  brother 
Jean  become  the  royal  chambermaid  an  he  will." 

The  upholsterer  rubbed  his  hands  gleefully,  while  his 
younger  son  grinned,  each  seeing  an  advantage  to  him 
self  in  the  young  reprobate's  offer. 

The  matter  was  soon  accommodated,  the  grinning 
brother  receiving  the  reversion  of  the  office  of  valet  de 
chambre  tapissier  du  roi,  and  Jean-Baptiste  six  hundred 
and  thirty  livres  tournois — barely  a  tithe  of  his  inherit 
ance,  yet  enough  for  a  spendthrift,  thought  his  father, 
while  carefully  concealing  the  full  facts  of  his  steward 
ship.  Moreover,  to  ease  his  conscience,  the  upholsterer 
continued  to  give  board  and  lodging  to  the  recreant,  a 
full  quid  pro  quo,  as  he  deemed  it,  for  the  coin  of  the 
realm  kept  safely  locked  in  his  strong  box. 

Thus  Jean-Baptiste  relinquished  the  family  honours 
and  received  for  his  abnegation  but  a  part  of  his  inherit 
ance.  Had  he  not  been  in  love,  he  might  have  been 
more  particular  in  money  matters,  but  precisely  as  no 
two  kettles  will  boil  alike,  so  with  young  men  in 
love.  In  one,  the  trouble  sputters  over  harmlessly  in 
groans  and  sighs;  in  another,  it  is  a  vehement  seething 
within  until  the  heart  breaks.  This  latter  was  Jean- 
Baptiste's  kind. 

But  out  of  the  vain  struggle  rose  one  desire  he  could 
not  fulfil  by  any  reasoning — a  longing  for  his  dead 
mother's  love.  She  was  not  a  close-ribbed  shopkeeper. 
She  would  have  understood;  and  from  his  memory  of 
her  he  painted  his  ideal — a  woman  whose  thoughts  were 
exalted,  whose  voice  was  low,  whose  pleasure  was  the 
happiness  of  her  husband  and  children;  an  angel,  the 
rustling  of  whose  skirts  brought  peace.  Often  he  went 
to  the  room  where  her  clothes  were  kept  in  an  inlaid 


A   DAY   FOR   JOYOUSNESS  61 

chest.  Her  petticoats  of  gros  de  Naples  cloth  were 
there,  her  hongreline  of  black  camlet,  her  linen  collars 
and  lace  mob-caps  all  neatly  folded,  each  on  the  other. 
There  he  would  kiss  the  hems  of  the  dear  garments 
reverently,  then  weep  his  heart  out  in  the  solitude  of  that 
little  room  above  his  father's  shop.  Her  books — "  The 
Lives  of  Great  Men"  and  the  Bible — he  thumbed  until 
the  edges  were  rough,  praying  that  he  might  one  day 
meet  and  love  a  woman  such  as  she  had  been. 

At  moments,  a  vision  of  Madeleine  came  to  him — 
Madeleine  the  radiant  and  tall.  Then,  upon  the  stage 
beside  her,  he  would  see  a  hateful  noble,  curled  and 
bewigged;  and  the  demon  jealousy  would  mock  and 
torment  him.  But,  though  his  heart  was  tortured  until 
he  envied  the  poor  wretches  he  had  seen  broken  on  the 
wheel  in  the  place  de  Greve,  though  he  worshipped  the 
sound  of  her  voice,  the  curve  of  her  white  breast,  the 
eyes  that  had  looked  into  his  that  night  in  her  garden, 
he  knew  that  she  failed  in  a  thousand  ways. 

Thus  for  months  he  fretted,  too  much  in  love  to  endure 
his  kinsfolk,  too  ashamed  of  it  to  mingle  abroad;  fretted 
until,  one  day  in  early  June,  his  father  moved  his  shop 
and  dwelling  to  the  arcades  of  the  market-place.  This 
house  the  upholsterer  had  owned  for  years,  but  a  frip- 
per's  rent  had  been  of  more  moment  than  a  location  in 
the  heart  of  Paris;  so,  while  the  f ripper  paid  his  rent 
regularly,  Jean  Poquelin,  sire,  plied  his  own  trade  in  a 
dingy  street. 

The  new  quarters  were  in  no  sense  a  home  to  Jean- 
Baptiste,  bound  by  the  ties  of  memory  to  another  abode ; 
but  the  bustle  and  noise  of  the  market-place  served  to 
drive  his  low  spirits  away.  The  life  of  the  city  passed 
before  the  door;  housewives,  merchants,  crones  and  beg- 


62  FAME'S   PATHWAY 

gars,  porters  bent  beneath  their  packs,  lean  peasants 
trudging  beside  their  donkeys.  Near  by  stood  the 
pillory,  and  while  the  cries  of  hucksters  mingled  with 
the  hammering  of  adjacent  pewterers,  evil-doers  stiffened 
in  the  stocks.  Across  the  square  rose  the  Church  of  the 
Holy  Innocents;  beyond  the  first  mart  stood  the  squat, 
triangular  corn  exchange;  around  the  market-place  were 
rambling  arcades  swarming  with  artisans  of  every  guild. 
It  was  a  crowd  to  interest  a  keen,  perceptive  lad ;  a  place 
to  study  misery,  prosperity,  and  greed;  a  place  to  know 
humanity. 

No  sooner  had  Jean-Baptiste  grown  used  to  these  new 
sights  than  Claude  Chapelle — always  alert  when  not 
in  his  cups — passed  the  market-place  and  saw  him  mop 
ing  in  a  doorway.  Naturally  he  took  stock  of  the  young 
man's  condition. 

"Ah,  my  love-sick  friend,"  he  exclaimed,  and  put 
forth  a  hand  from  beneath  some  lace  frills,  "  I  fancied 
you  had  drowned  yourself  in  the  Seine  long  ago." 

Jean-Baptiste  could  have  struck  him. 

"  Stuff  and  nonsense!  "  he  shrugged,  with  an  indiffer 
ence  too  feigned  to  deceive  one  so  wary.  "  If  you  refer 
to  La  Bejart,  I  have  not  seen  her  for  months." 

"  Oh,"  said  the  friend  with  a  grunt,  "  then  your  pas 
sion  exploded  like  the  king's  fireworks?  " 

"  Yes,  a  flash  in  the  pan ;  "  but  the  lad  could  not 
withhold  a  blush,  so  he  turned  away  petulantly. 

Chapelle  caught  his  arm. 

"  Then,  if  it  is  not  love,  it  must  be  upholstery,"  he 
said,  knowing  his  friend  had  lied,  but  conceiving  that  the 
cause  warranted  it.  "  You  look  shop-ridden ;  come,  take 
a  stroll:  the  morning  is  young." 

"  Nay,  I  would  fain  be  unmolested,"  snarled  the  other. 


A   DAY   FOR   JOYOUSNESS  65 

"  Fudge ! — you  have  inhaled  the  fumes  of  too  much 
glue.  Get  your  hat  like  a  good  fellow." 

In  truth,  Jean-Baptiste  needed  but  this  urging.  He 
had  vexed  himself  into  a  rage;  and  distraction — even 
the  company  of  bantering  Chapelle — was  a  godsend. 

The  sun  was  shining  when  the  two  friends  went  forth, 
and  the  air  was  balmy.  A  day  for  joyousness  it  seemed 
to  Jean-Baptiste,  until  he  tarried  for  a  moment  in  a 
ragamuffin  crowd  about  the  pillory.  A  gang  of  con 
victs  stood  waiting  to  march  to  the  galleys  and,  in  a 
wooden  cage,  some  lesser  criminals  turned  slowly  on  a 
pivot,  a  warning  to  evil-doers.  A  pickpocket  was  being 
flogged,  and  the  public  torturers  were  branding  the 
foreheads  and  backs  of  thieves  with  the  fleur-de-lis  of 
shame.  Bared  to  the  waist,  the  shivering  wretches 
awaited  the  torment.  When  a  hot  iron  burned  into  a 
poor  devil's  flesh,  a  look  of  agony,  a  heart-rending  cry; 
then  tatterdemalion  Paris  jeered,  sang  ribald  songs,  and 
frolicked — a  sight  to  hurt  a  lover  of  humanity;  so, 
trembling  and  sick  at  heart,  Jean-Baptiste  turned 
away. 

"  Such  cruelty  makes  me  ashamed  to  have  been  born  a 
man,"  he  said,  when  he  could  find  the  tongue  to  speak. 
"  It  makes  me  long  to  be  a  king." 

"  So  that  you  might  turn  the  gaols  into  churches," 
shrugged  Chapelle, — "  or  theatres,"  he  added,  by  way 
of  sarcasm. 

"  I  should  try  to  be  fair  to  the  oppressed,"  Jean- 
Baptiste  answered,  regardless  of  the  taunt.  "  What 
justice  is  there  in  France  to-day?  " 

"  None,"  laughed  his  friend,  pointing  to  a  cut-purse 
clipping  a  wallet  from  the  belt  of  a  well-to-do  matron 
while  she  bargained  for  a  fat  chicken. 


64  FAME'S   PATHWAY 

"  If  I  were  a  down-trodden  wretch,  I  would  do  the 
same,"  Jean-Baptiste  sighed. 

To  interfere  with  the  traffic  of  a  thief  was  to  be 
marked  for  assault  on  the  first  dark  night ;  so  the  friends 
strolled  on. 

All  Paris  bumped  shoulders  with  them:  merchants  in 
fine  mantles,  hautes-bourgeoises  aping  the  manners  of 
the  court,  maidens  with  slanting  eyes,  defiant  strumpets, 
peasants  crooked  by  the  burdens  on  their  backs,  vendors 
of  gimcracks,  rollicking  urchins,  lackeys,  cavaliers, 
donkeys,  beggars,  dogs,  and  blacklegs — jostling  one  an 
other  in  a  seething  throng.  Above  the  jabbering  and 
clatter  rose  the  cries  of  pedlars :  "  Brushes  and  brooms ! 
Spanish  wax!  Holland  biscuit!  Mackerel,  four  for  six 
sous ! " 

This  tumult  was  a  delight  to  Jean-Baptiste  elbowing 
his  way  through  the  market-place.  His  mind  caught  a 
thousand  impressions,  his  nose  as  many  smells.  "  In 
human  Paris,"  he  thought,  "city  of  greedy  usurers,  vile 
haunt  of  thieves!  Inconstant  Paris,  city  of  boudoirs 
and  barricades,  where  the  lute  trembles  to  the  lover's 
touch,  or  pikes  gleam  in  the  night,  according  to  her 
whim!  Yes,  she  has  as  many  moods  as  the  smells  she 
exhales."  But  he  loved  her,  cruel  and  purse-proud, 
gay  or  debonair,  because  he  was  Paris-born ! 

Feasting  his  thoughts  thus,  he  walked  beside  his  gar 
rulous  companion  and  forgot  the  travail  of  his  heart  in 
the  joy  of  living.  They  turned  the  corner  by  the  newly 
built  Church  of  St.  Eustache,  where  Jean-Baptiste  had 
been  baptised,  to  enter  a  rambling  street  flanked  by 
arcades  and  shops.  Here  the  going  was  impeded  by  a 
gilded  coach  heralded  by  shouting  lackeys,  and,  flat- 


A  DAY   FOR   JOYOUSNESS  65 

tening  themselves  against  a  wall,  they  saw  Madame  de 
Rambouillet  pass;  then  wormed  their  way  once  more 
through  the  crowd. 

To  Claude  Chapelle,  the  pushing,  surging  throng  with 
its  noxious  smells  was  a  bore  and  pest;  to  Jean-Baptiste, 
a  never-ending  source  of  interest.  The  fop,  the  coy 
maiden,  the  fishwife  screeching  her  eels  and  carp,  the 
dotard  twiddling  his  thumbs,  had  each  a  character  apart. 
Humanity! — patient,  afflicted,  smiling,  courteous,  or 
smooth,  depraved,  courageous,  or  exalted;  humanity! — 
with  its  longings,  its  joys,  and  its  infinite  suffering,  was 
a  subject  of  which  he  never  wearied. 

In  the  rue  St.  Honore  he  saw  the  house  where  he  had 
passed  his  childhood — a  house  with  a  jutting  sign  that 
read,  "  Au  pavilion  des  singes."  A  band  of  pilfering 
monkeys  climbing  an  orange  tree  was  carved  upon  the 
corner  post.  Crouching  on  the  ground  beneath  his 
nimbler  comrades,  a  grisled  wiseacre  picked  up  the 
fruit  they  dropped — an  apologue  of  wordly  wisdom, 
so  it  seemed  to  Jean-Baptiste. 

He  paused  as  he  passed  to  glance  at  a  window  above 
the  shop — the  window  of  his  dead  mother's  room. 

"Are  you  never  coming?"  asked  Chapelle,  tugging 
his  sleeve. 

He  looked  up  dazed.     His  friend  prattled  on: 

"  Are  you  daft  about  those  monkeys  climbing  a  tree  ?  " 

"  It  is  the  house  where  I  was  reared,"  he  answered. 

"  No  wonder  they  call  it  the  monkey  pavilion."  And 
Chapelle  chuckled  at  his  own  youthful  wit. 

Jean-Baptiste  turned  on  his  heel. 

"  The  way  to  the  Tuileries  lies  not  hither !  "  called 
his  friend. 


66  FAME'S   PATHWAY 

"  The  Tuileries !  "  he  shrugged ;  "  the  haunt  of  the 
petite  bourgeoise?  I  prefer  the  Pont  Neuf  and  its 
mountebanks." 

"  Because  of  a  certain  theatre  hard  by,"  laughed  the 
other. 

"  A  theatre  closed  on  market  days,  as  you  know  full 
well,"  Jean-Baptiste  answered  tartly,  hurrying  toward 
the  Seine.  Chapelle  followed,  twirling  his  cane. 

They  strolled  through  streets  where  goats  and  don 
keys  crowded  them  into  doorways,  to  the  river  bank; 
they  picked  their  way  past  barges  high  and  dry 
upon  the  sand,  horses  watering  in  the  river,  lusty 
porters  staggering  beneath  huge  bales  of  merchandise. 
A  stream  of  traffic  flowed  incessantly  across  the  bridge 
before  them;  coaches,  carts,  horsemen,  and  wayfarers. 
Above  the  rush  of  water  swirling  in  a  mill  wheel  rose  the 
cries  of  boatmen,  the  creaking  of  their  oars. 

Upon  the  Pont  Neuf,  main  artery  of  Paris,  they  loi 
tered,  finally,  to  watch  its  ever  changing  life.  There 
idlers  gaped  before  the  booths  of  charlatans,  while  busy 
people  came  and  went.  The  river  glided  swift  beneath 
them;  Notre  Dame  towered  dark  against  the  sky;  amid 
the  hum  of  commerce,  shrilled  the  cries  of  vagabond 
humanity:  poets  reciting  their  pasquinades,  balladists 
trilling  their  songs,  quacks  and  pedlars  shouting  their 
wares,  and,  silent  in  that  bedlam,  the  form  of  Henry  IV 
astride  a  horse  of  bronze — a  monument  of  deeds  in  the 
midst  of  rogues  and  dupes. 

Before  the  stall  of  Bary,  a  famous  charlatan,  a  crowd 
had  gathered:  lackeys  and  bumpkins  to  jeer,  grisettes 
and  wenches  to  laugh,  masked  ladies  of  the  court  and 
cavaliers  du  plus  bel  air  to  smile;  for,  while  the  swindler 
sold  his  opiates  and  balms,  his  mountebanks  performed 


A   place   for  idle  thoughts  and  dreaming 


A   DAY   FOR  .JOYOUSNESS  67 

upon  a  stage  to  draw  him  custom.  Jean-Baptiste  and 
his  friend  mingled  with  this  throng.  A  rough  and  tumble 
farce  was  being  played — a  farce  with  coarse,  impromptu 
lines  furnished  by  the  actor's  ever  ready  wit,  a  play  for 
the  people. 

To  be  a  mountebank,  Jean-Baptiste  thought,  to 
tumble  and  grimace  for  the  merriment  of  such  a  crowd ! 
Ah,  what  a  life!  Yet  those  crude  actors  drove  care 
from  many  a  heart  with  their  vulgar  fun,  for  their  art 
was  human,  and  they  were  human  too  in  their  sympathy, 
their  suffering.  Ay,  had  not  Turlupin  and  Gaultier  Gar- 
guille,  his  mate,  once  performed  on  just  such  a  rickety 
stage  ere  they  became  the  greatest  farceurs  of  France; 
and  had  they  not  died  of  grief  in  the  moment  of  their 
triumph  because  a  comrade  whom  they  loved  was 
hounded  to  his  grave  for  mimicking  a  magistrate? 

"  To  wear  a  clown's  cap,  to  paint  your  face  each  day 
and  bare  your  back  to  all  the  beatings  of  comedy,  then 
die  an  outcast — an  outcast  for  the  sake  of  her !  Ah, 
what  a  life !  "  he  sighed  again,  wandering  toward  the 
parapet  of  the  bridge,  for  the  sight  of  these  humble 
actors  saddened  him. 

A  flight  of  steps  led  downward  to  the  swift  current. 
Pleasure  craft  tugged  at  their  moorings;  boatmen  dozed 
on  the  thwarts ;  the  sunrays  danced  on  the  ripples ;  across 
the  bridge  came  the  throbbing  of  the  tambours  of  the 
royal  musketeers.  A  place  for  idle  thoughts  and  dream 
ing,  so  it  seemed  to  Jean-Baptiste,  if  he  could  but  forget 
Madeleine  Bejart.  Beyond  that  round  Tour  de  Nesle 
that  rose  against  the  sky,  beyond  those  moated  walls,  was 
her  theatre.  But  it  pained  him  to  think  of  her;  so  he 
tried  to  watch  the  life  upon  the  river,  the  boat  loads  of 
merry-makers,  the  barges  from  the  sea.  Yet  hard  as  he 


68  FAME'S    PATHWAY 

strove  to  drive  her  from  his  mind,  she  seemed  to  be  in 
the  very  air  he  breathed — the  sound  of  her  soft  voice, 
the  perfume  of  her  hair;  and  in  those  thoughts  of  her, 
her  many  faults  were  veiled,  until,  trusting  his  own 
heart  too  much,  she,  the  adorable  queen  of  it,  sat  en 
throned  in  its  high  place. 

How  long  he  stood  there  dreaming  he  could  not  have 
told,  for  time  is  not  a  thing  to  be  reckoned  by  a  young 
man  in  love.  Hearing  the  sound  of  laughter,  he  looked 
up  startled  to  see  a  party  of  girls  and  gallants  bent  for  a 
day's  outing  on  the  river.  The  moment  he  had  view  of 
them  he  became  all  of  a  tremble;  for  in  that  light  com 
pany  was  Madeleine  with  that  great  beauty  of  hers  to 
make  him  a  furtive  fool,  afraid  to  speak,  afraid  to  run, 
but  wildly  in  love. 

Modene,  too,  was  there  to  fire  all  the  hate  in  him,  and 
the  cavalier,  seeing  him  thus  abashed,  took  enough 
mutinous  joy  at  it  to  sweep  his  plumed  hat  towards  a 
canopied  barge  by  way  of  invitation.  Ware  the  danger ! 
No  thoughts  of  it  were  Jean-Baptiste's  then;  for,  when 
Madeleine  smiled,  he  bore  away  the  fear  of  her  together 
with  the  doubts  that  had  troubled  him,  and  fairly 
tumbled  into  the  boat  in  his  eagerness  to  sit  next  the 
one  supreme  creature  in  all  the  world  at  that  moment. 

So  he  went,  while  Chapelle  stood  on  the  bridge  to 
growl  at  being  left  thus  in  the  lurch.  But  in  spite  of 
his  envy  he  pitied  the  lad. 


CHAPTER  VIII 

THE  MAGIC  ISLE 

THEY  had  landed  on  an  island — Madeleine  and  Jean- 
Baptiste — an  island  dense  with  beauty  and  the  breath  of 
flowers.  Their  boat  lay  hidden  in  the  weeds  that  hung 
upon  the  bank.  On  water  burnished  by  the  sun,  aspens 
and  willows  trailed  their  dark  shadows;  the  lily  in  the 
reeds  was  white ;  the  skylark  in  the  blue  above,  all  song. 

Upon  these  captivating  shores  this  girl  who  had 
known  the  ill-will  of  life  sat  content.  To-morrow  the 
tryst  would  have  become  a  memory,  but  to-day  she  built 
her  temple  there.  Beyond  a  bend  in  the  flashing  river, 
cavaliers  and  painted  women  danced  to  the  tune  of  a 
lute;  in  a  hazy,  distant  city  was  a  hateful  shop;  but  to 
the  youth  who  breathed  unconscious  sighs  beside  her,  the 
world  lay  leagues  away. 

All  the  morning  long  he  had  sat  in  a  boat  while 
D'Assoucy  touched  his  instrument.  When  others  ate 
and  drank  beneath  a  spreading  tree,  he,  silent  and 
morose,  had  watched  Modene  and  hated  him — watched 
Madeleine,  too,  when  he  dared. 

The  cavalier  had  been  quite  frank.  He  had  drunk 
to  La  Bej  art's  next  love. 

"  Is  it  you  ?  "  asked  Madeleine. 

"  Yes,  I,"  answered  Jean-Baptiste. 

At  least  so  said  their  glances  in  the  moment  when  they 
strayed  together.  After  the  pointed  laughter  and  Marie 
Courtin's  smile  of  triumph,  he  was  the  first  to  speak. 

69 


70  FAME'S    PATHWAY 

"  You  are  not  really  angry  with  me  for  that  evening 
months  ago  ?  " 

"  Not  with  you,  dear  heart,"  cried  her  soul.  "  With 
you,  foolish  boy,"  said  her  lips, — "  yes,  very  angry." 
And  he,  in  his  inexperience,  believed  her. 

"  But  I  was  leaving  you  for  ever !  "  cried  his  voice, 
when  he  could  find  it. 

"  For  ever !  "  she  laughed ;  "  then  why  in  Heaven's 
name  did  you  come  with  me  to-day  ?  " 

"  Because  I  am  a  foolish  boy,"  he  said,  joining  his 
laughter  with  hers. 

Sweet  lips!  Eyes  of  tenderest  fire!  How  could  he 
behold  them  without  a  tremor? 

A  boat  lay  moored  against  the  bank,  and  their  mood 
was  to  drift.  Alone  upon  the  stream,  they  glided  across 
fair  river  reaches  while  the  clear,  deep  water  sparkled 
in  the  sun  and  curled  in  ripples  from  the  prow.  Their 
secret  was  at  large.  The  woods  echoed  with  it,  the 
winds  sighed,  and  the  waters  laughed;  only  they  seemed 
not  to  know  the  shore  toward  which  they  rowed  was 
enchanted. 

"  Shall  we  land?  "  his  lips  whispered,  with  a  look  that 
said,  "  I  would  give  my  soul  for  one  kiss !  " 

He  waited,  resting  on  his  oars,  till  she  murmured, 
"  Yes." 

As  he  helped  her  scramble  up  the  bank,  care  and  duty 
seemed  to  fade  away,  dead  and  forgotten;  for  joy  was 
within  him,  hopeful,  divine.  Hand  linked  in  hand,  they 
passed  through  the  shade  of  the  willows  to  a  spot  bright 
with  flowers;  and  when  they  sat  there,  he,  with  his  eyes 
intently  fixed  on  hers,  could  only  murmur : 

"  Madeleine,  I  love  you." 

His  words  slipped  out  unawares,  and  he  trembled  at 


THE   MAGIC    ISLE  71 

his  daring.  Strange  that  they  should  bring  a  timid 
fluttering  to  her  heart — to  La  Bejart,  who  had  lived. 

As  she  did  not  speak,  he  waited. 

"  If — if  I  hurt  you,"  said  his  wounded  voice  at  last. 

Ey  some  fatal  chance,  she  looked  up  wistfully  in  a 
way  she  firmly  had  not  meant  to  look.  A  joyous  shud 
der  ran  through  his  young  body.  Unconsciously  his 
daring  grew,  and  he  drew  close  to  her.  In  her  eager 
ness  to  restrain  him,  she  met  his  glance  once  more;  with 
out  warning,  her  blue  eyes  lightened  love,  and  to  his 
urgent  look  she  said: 

"  I  love  you,  too,  dearest,  yet  I  fear " 

Lips  with  the  curve  of  the  love-god's  bow,  lips  as 
fragrant  as  the  flowers  upon  the  bank!  How  could  his 
eyes  behold  them  and  he  not  kiss  when  she  gave  him  her 
whole  dear  face?  Indeed,  he  asked  himself  that  very 
question  when,  filled  with  new  and  glorious  emotions,  he 
sighed  and  gazed  at  her  in  abject  wonderment.  And  so 
in  trembling  unison  they  built  their  altar  there — this 
girl  who  knew  the  ill-will  of  life,  this  youth  who  knew 
only  her.  And  so,  before  love's  witchery,  fear  and 
detestable  duty  vanished;  for  there  were  daffodils  and 
trailing  bramble,  and  there,  beside  a  youth  o'er- 
burdened  with  emotion,  were  two  blue  eyes  and  golden 
hair. 

When  nature  and  love  conspire,  where  is  the  law  and 
where  the  prophet  to  keep  two  beings  apart?  "Pis  true 
the  decalogue  became  a  pagan  rite  before  love's  necro 
mancy;  but  perish  the  law  and  all  the  prophets  in  the 
surging  of  their  hearts !  Had  their  vows  been  pledged 
to  Mother  Church,  the  world  had  lost  where  Heaven 
gained. 

To  dream  was  their  sole  concern.     Who  cared  if  a 


12  FAME'S    PATHWAY 

hateful  shop  were  in  a  hazy  city,  and  who  if  a  chandler 
were  unpaid,  when  beside  the  white  temple  of  their  love 
they  might  build  a  castle  to  defend  their  hope? 

The  lad  had  a  competence — six  hundred  livres  in  all; 
flushed  with  pride  and  happiness,  he  laid  it  at  her  feet — 
material  foundation  for  the  keep.  He  had  ambitions  too ; 
for  now  that  the  die  was  cast,  he  planned  a  brilliant 
edifice  which  they  might  build  together,  stone  by  stone, 
until  above  the  proud  battlements  the  oriflamme  of  fame 
should  wave.  Had  not  the  stage  been  a  temple  in  the 
halcyon  days  of  Greece,  and  the  culmination  of  its  art 
the  festival  of  a  god?  His  dream  was  to  revive  this 
glory.  She  should  be  high  priestess;  he,  her  oracle. 

"  Ah,  dearest,"  he  sighed,  "  that  day  when  first  I  saw 
you  and  my  heart  was  tortured  by  your  beauty,  the 
thought  that  the  world  must  turn  from  you  was  the 
hardest  to  bear." 

"  The  world  cannot  be  changed,"  she  said  most 
bitterly. 

"What  injustice!"  he  cried;  "what  infamy!" 

Gazing  with  trembling  eyelids  under  hers,  he  failed  to 
see  the  strolling  actress  not  above  reproach — the 
woman  older  than  himself.  But  the  isle  was  bewitched, 
remember,  and  she  the  enchanting  queen  of  it  to  his 
infatuated  eyes.  Mad  indeed  with  love  and  ambition, 
he  forgot  his  fears  and  qualms,  when  he,  a  grand  lover, 
kissed  her  and  held  her  panting  to  his  breast. 

He  would  learn  much  from  her  lips — yet  what  he 
learned  was  what  she  chose  to  confess;  for  where  is  the 
heart  so  honest  that  its  secrets  are  not  tinged  a  roseate 
hue  when  told  ?  Modene,  the  turbulent  spirit,  she  turned 
the  page  of  him  quickly.  Once  banished  by  the  king,  he 
had  now  been  banished  by  her,  she  said.  Pride  forbade 


THE   MAGIC    ISLE  73 

the  divulgence  of  Marie  Courtin's  wiles;  likewise  the 
entirety  of  her  own  love — the  shame  that  had  darkened 
it.  Suffice  it  for  him  to  know  the  affair  was  ended  and 
the  cavalier  would  soon  be  off  to  seek  adventures  with 
the  young  Due  de  Guise.  Heaven  be  praised!  thought 
he. 

"The  past  is  dead,"  he  softly  said;  "think,  dear,  of 
the  future." 

Then  the  castle  grew  another  storey  at  least.  She 
was  a  girl  of  capacity  and  discretion ;  he,  a  wild  dreamer : 
but  the  edifice  promised  fair. 

"  No  more  upholstery ! "  he  shouted  with  boyish  fer 
vour ;  "  no  more  law  books !  " 

His  heart  burst  its  prison  bars  and  he  was  free — free 
as  the  skylark  in  the  blue  above,  free  to  consecrate  his 
life  to  her;  so  his  ardour  galloped  a  mad  pace. 

Had  not  a  king  decreed  that  no  reproach  should  at 
tach  to  the  profession  of  actor,  and  had  not  the  cardinal, 
his  master,  written  plays?  The  church  alone  had  not 
removed  its  ban.  But  the  stage  was  in  the  hands  of  low 
born  vagabonds  unworthy  to  be  shriven.  Ah,  there  was 
the  rub;  and  was  not  she,  dear  girl,  and  he,  as  well,  in 
a  way  to  save  a  noble  art  from  degradation?  She  was 
fairly  well-born,  so  was  he;  together,  they  might  exalt 
the  stage  and  make  actor  a  name  to  be  borne  without 
shame.  Yes,  they  would  form  a  company  of  players, 
each  at  least  a  bourgeois  of  Paris,  to  play  for  the  love 
of  art:  a  company  to  enact  great  tragedies  such  as  had 
made  the  stage  in  Greece  a  marvel  for  all  time. 

Such  was  the  wild  plan  he  breathed  as  he  held  her 
trembling  in  his  arms;  and  though  the  poor  girl  felt 
it  doomed  beforehand,  she  timidly  acquiesced,  for  he  was 
master  by  this  time  of  her  reason  and  her  soul.  She 


74  FAME'S    PATHWAY 

exhausted  herself  by  entreaties,  but  he  bore  away  opposi 
tion  as  he  bore  away  fear,  by  the  very  vigour  of  his  love. 
It  had  burst  its  young  bonds,  and,  like  a  torrent,  swept 
her  from  her  footing. 

"  Think,  dear;  a  theatre  without  slavish  traditions,  a 
theatre  where  the  actors  are  worthy  folk,  and  the  art  is 
a  true  mirror  of  life !  Ah,  my  sweet,  when  these  poor 
livres  of  mine  are  gone,  we  shall  have  a  following  glad 
to  pay  us  thrice  the  prices  of  the  royal  troupe  rather 
than  that  our  work  should  perish !  " 

The  furtive  girl  could  only  murmur :  "  The  boldness 
of  the  enterprise  fairly  takes  my  breath  away;  yet  I 
fear " 

But  he,  being  in  an  eager  mood,  paid  no  heed.  "  We 
will  call  it  '  The  Illustrious  Theatre ' — a  name  to  con- 
jure  with!  " 

Here  was  Madeleine  Bej  art,  well  versed  in  her  calling, 
who,  having  let  her  heart  be  stolen,  was  preparing  to 
follow  the  mad  youth  who  had  taken  it  into  any  depth 
of  folly;  but  she,  like  the  isle,  was  bewitched;  so  she 
let  him  proceed  in  his  vain  castle  building,  until,  to  her 
charmed  eyes,  as  well,  fame  was  unfurled  on  the  top 
most  battlement.  She  with  her  experience,  he  with  his 
zeal  and  courage,  she  thought.  Yes,  the  plan  promised 
fair — and  reconciled  some  qualms  of  conscience  too,  for 
surely  this  was  not  vagabondage,  this  purpose  to  exalt 
the  stage. 

So,  with  their  hearts  for  fiery  steeds,  love  galloped 
over  boundless  plains  of  fancy  toward  the  castle  they 
had  built;  but  if  the  goal  was  in  the  air,  so  were  they — 
yes,  leagues  above  the  earth  in  the  clear,  delicious  air 
of  paradise! 

"  Only  to  convince  the  world  that  the  player's  art  is 


THE   MAGIC   ISLE  75 

worthy  of  respect,"  he  cried  in  his  enthusiasm;  "what  a 
life  work,  dearest,  for  you  and  me ! " 

"  Beloved/'  she  sighed  at  this,  "  I  have  learned  from 
your  lips  what  love  might  be ;  "  for  he  had  a  hundred 
hearts,  you  see,  and  she  but  one — true  from  that  moment. 

While  they  dreamed,  the  sun  disc  nestled  in  the  hills. 
Round  the  bend  of  the  flashing  river  came  a  gilded 
barge.  The  shadows  deepened  on  the  stream;  the  bur 
nished  river  sparkled  in  the  fading  sunshine;  beneath  a 
bright  canopy,  cavaliers  and  painted  girls  sang  to  a 
trembling  lute.  Plash  went  the  oars  in  unison,  until 
rude  laughter  vexed  the  lovers  from  their  dream  of  para 
dise,  and  they  awoke  to  find  themselves  mere  chilly  mor 
tals  on  damp  mother  earth. 


CHAPTER    IX 

A    FOOL'S    PARADISE 

AFTER  that  magic  hour,  Jean-Baptiste  could  talk  of 
nothing  but  his  project.  There  were  other  young  men 
in  Paris  who  sighed  for  the  moon,  but  to  uphold  the 
stage  merely  for  the  love  of  it,  seemed  even  to  these 
a  madness  on  a  par  with  tilting  windmills.  For  love  of 
an  actress,  yes ;  but  since  the  youthful  propagandist  had 
taken  the  precaution  to  secure  the  affection  of  the  fair 
one  for  himself,  his  most  excellent  design  met  with 
many  a  tongue  in  the  cheek. 

Two  young  scamps,  however,  became  enthusiastic 
proselytes  to  his  illustrious  venture,  to  wit:  Germain 
Clerin,  idler  by  trade,  and  Nicolas  Bonnenfant,  a  law 
yer's  clerk.  These,  being  without  specie,  found  the  ad 
venture  to  their  liking,  and  being  burghers  of  Paris, 
too,  they  came  within  the  scheme's  exalted  scope ;  yet  two 
impecunious  rascals  could  hardly  be  dubbed  as  illus 
trious  company  even  by  zealous  Jean-Baptiste. 

Here,  wily  Joseph  Bejart,  sniffing  six  hundred  livres 
from  afar,  came,  rubbing  his  hands  gleefully,  with  a 
suggestion  to  make.  Since  his  sister  and  he  already 
adorned  the  stage,  a  further  leavening  of  professional 
talent  should  not  prove  amiss.  It  was  a  case  of  beg 
gar's  choice,  so  portly  Beys — votary  of  Bacchus  and 
Apollo — was  rescued  from  the  wreckage  of  a  stranded 
company,  and  when  to  his  wine-logged  person  were 
added  the  delectable  forms  of  three  such  comediennes 
as  Catherine  Desurlis,  Madelon  Malingre,  and  La 
Bej  art's  sister  Genevieve,  the  young  impresario  fairly 


A   FOOL'S   PARADISE  77 

exulted.  Here  was  a  company  to  reckon  with,  thought 
he;  yet  as  he  noted  how  nearly  it  approached  in  per 
sonnel  fair  Madeleine's  luckless  band,  his  heart  had  one 
qualm  at  least. 

Jean-Baptiste  de  1'Hermite  and  his  rosy-cheeked 
spouse,  Marie  Courtin,  scorned  the  enterprise — or  shall 
it  be  said  that  their  dreams  of  a  cottage  in  the  comte 
Venaissin  began  to  be  substantiated?  The  Baron  de 
Modene  betook  himself  thither  and  they  in  his  train. 
This  departure  of  an  atrocious  nobleman  brought  joy 
to  Jean-Baptiste  and  peace  to  Madeleine;  yet  no  sooner 
was  he  in  the  comte  than  he  was  off  again  to  join  the 
suite  of  young  Guise,  leaving  base  Hermite  and  his 
conscienceless  wife  tenants  of  the  cottage  they  longed 
to  possess. 

Being  the  villain  whose  machinations  tempered  the 
hero's  ecstasy  with  gall,  Modene's  departure  should  end 
this  tale;  yet  there  were  other  detriments  to  Jean-Bap- 
tiste's  content,  the  most  apparent  being  the  very  players 
he  had  gathered  about  him.  When  he  reviewed  his 
gawky  company,  he  was  forced  to  acknowledge  in  his 
inmost  heart  that  the  only  illustrious  quality  of  it  so  far 
was  its  name.  But  the  die  was  cast.  Failure  was  not 
to  be  dreamed  of.  O,  youth !  the  faith  of  it,  the  strength 
of  it! 

Soon  the  rumour  circulated  through  the  market-place 
that  young  Poquelin  was  going  on  the  stage.  "  For 
love  of  a  piece  of  fondling,"  whispered  estimable  house 
wives.  Maidens,  with  their  ears  strained  for  gossip, 
feigned  not  to  listen;  but  tongues  wagged  readily  then 
as  now;  so  the  story  grew  apace  until  Madeleine  was 
said  to  be  the  dalliance  of  half  the  gilded  youth  of 
France. 


78  FAME'S   PATHWAY 

Well  might  an  upholsterer  to  the  king  despair !  When 
a  lad  craved  a  wanton,  must  he  needs  bring  disgrace  to 
a  worthy  name!  His  son  an  actor!  To  clip  purses 
were  better  employment,  since  there  was  profit  in  that. 
Pity  the  poor  man  and  imagine  how  he  stormed ! 

As  for  Jean-Baptiste  himself,  he  stood  firm  as  a  rock. 
Nothing  his  father  might  say  could  turn  him  from  his 
purpose.  He  had  been  seethed  in  middle  class  preju 
dice  since  boyhood,  and  the  wild  doings  already  chroni 
cled  were  only  the  transports  of  a  restless  nature,  ebbing, 
flowing,  without  aim  or  assured  direction.  His  mind  once 
made  up,  his  heart  became  outwardly  still,  while  in 
wardly  jubilant;  yet  to  onlookers  he  seemed  but  a  stub 
born  fool  bewitched  by  a  worthless  baggage.  The  pity 
is  that  those  who  knew  Madeleine  spoke  not  a  word  in 
her  defence. 

Undisturbed  by  the  chiding,  Jean-Baptiste  listened 
calmly  to  all  that  was  said  to  him,  and  would  perhaps 
answer  "  Yes,"  or  "  No,"  if  the  mood  were  upon  him, 
otherwise  nothing.  His  short-witted  family  could  never 
comprehend  an  ambition  lika-rhis,  so  why  waste  his 
breath?  But  before  putting  his  resolve  into  execution, 
he  waited  an  unconscionable  time — nearly  a  full  month 
— while  maturing  his  plans. 

Madeleine  he  saw  daily.  She  was  still  the  girl  he 
adored,  but  his  homage  did  not  extend  to  her  family — 
or  rather,  shall  it  be  said,  to  her  mother,  a  whining  bel 
dam  despite  the  suckling  child  at  her  breast.  Her  poor 
lord  had  departed  this  life  since  the  starlit  night  when 
Madeleine  had  vexed  impassioned  Jean-Baptiste  with 
footless  talk  of  kinsfolk.  Being  dead,  his  widow 
mourned  or  execrated  him,  according  to  her  mood,  for 
his  sole  legacy  had  been  his  debts.  These  she  publicly 


A  FOOL'S   PARADISE  79 

/enounced,  and  with  them  the  name  of  Bejart  for  that 
of  Marie  Herve,  her  maiden  cognomen. 

Together  with  his  debts,  the  defunct  court  crier  be 
queathed  to  the  widow  who  thus  forswore  his  name  and 
obligations,  a  child  in  arms — a  little  one  christened  soon 
after  his  death  Armande  Gresinde  Claire  Elisabeth 
Bejart.  A  wilful  baby  was  she,  yet  coy  withal,  and 
Jean-Baptiste  delighted  in  her  smiles  and  cooing,  but 
her  testy  mother  cursed  him  for  a  ne'er-do-well  whenever 
he  came  to  woo  her  eldest  daughter.  This  termagant 
lived  in  the  rue  de  la  Perle,  and  so  dutiful  was  Made 
leine  that  a  daily  visit  to  her  was  an  obligation  of  her 
life,  the  fulfilment  of  which  vexed  Jean-Baptiste  sadly. 

Of  his  sweetheart  he  dare  not  lose  a  moment — yet 
could  not  enjoy  one,  since  his  relatives  as  well  as  hers 
worried  him  t,o  a  rag. 

The  hours  of  vain  arguing  had  been  better  spent  by 
the  upholsterer,  his  father,  in  stuffing  chairs;  yet,  be 
fore  disgrace  should  tarnish  the  name  of  Poquelin,  he 
must  exhaust  all  means  to  shield  it.  Finding  his  own 
entreaties  of  no  avail,  this  most  excellent  shopkeeper 
enlisted  the  wise  men  of  the  neighbourhood.  When  their 
appeals  fell  on  deaf  ears,  he  summoned  as  a  last  resort 
one  George  Pinel,  a  master  scrivener.  This  worthy  had 
taught  the  lad  penmanship ;  why  should  he  not  teach  him 
sense,  argued  the  upholsterer. 

Now  this  scribe  was  somewhat  of  a  Pharisee  as  well. 
By  his  smooth  tongue  he  convinced  of  his  rectitude,  and 
for  a  promise  to  sway  the  son,  obtained  from  the  close- 
fisted  father  a  substantial  loan — a  triumph  for  his 
urbanity. 

The  penman  quite  charmed  the  budding  actor,  since 
he  perceived  the  fellow's  histrionic  talent  at  a  glance. 


80  FAME'S   PATHWAY 

Eyebrows  as  shaggy  as  Guillot-Gorju's,  a  pump-like 
nose  as  well:  What  a  comic  mask!  thought  he.  The 
fellow's  pleadings,  too,  were  interspersed  with  Latin. 
Surely  he  was  created  for  the  role  of  doctor;  so,  while 
the  scrivener  argued  in  his  smoothest  rhetoric,  Jean-Bap- 
tiste  did  his  devilmost  to  win  a  convert  for  his  enter 
prise. 

"  What !  the  scion  of  a  house  honoured  in  commercial 
Paris  since  three  generations  would  bring  dishonour  to 
his  name!  Facilis  est  descensus  Averni!  " 

The  lad  said,  "Why  not?    Humanum  est  errare!" 

The  penman's  brow  grew  dark  at  this. 

"  An  actor,  my  boy,  because  a  wench  has  bewitched 
you!  Horribile  dictu!  Latet  anguis  in  herba!  " 

"  In  totidem  verbis,  credula  res  amor  est!  "  retorted 
young  Poquelin,  stiffening  himself,  for  he  thought  to 
give  the  chap  his  fill  of  Latin. 

"Amor  furor  brevls  est.  Nosce  teipsum!"  said  the 
scribe,  with  his  eyes  rolled  heavenward. 

At  this  Jean-Baptiste  threw  down  the  gauntlet. 

"  Do  you  imagine  your  turgid  Latin  impresses  me  ? 
Bah !  For  a  mess  of  pottage  you  would  sell  your  soul." 

When  good  Master  Pinel  had  gasped,  he  stood  blink 
ing  the  astonishment  from  his  eyes. 

"  Such  disrespect  to  one  of  my  quality ! "  he  cried 
out,  whimpering. 

"  Yes,  sell  your  soul,"  the  lad  repeated ;  "  you,  who 
prate  to  me  in  bad  Latin  because  my  father  has  bribed 
you  to  tell  me  I  am  on  the  high-road  to  hell !  " 

The  rogue  took  a  deep  breath  and  a  shuffling  step 
forward.  "  You  young  scamp,  you  shall  answer  for 
this!" 

"  I  know  you,  Monsieur  George   Pinel,"  said  Jean- 


A    FOOL'S    PARADISE  81 

Baptiste,  without  moving  his  eyes  from  his  adversary. 
"  You  are  a  true  vagabond  at  heart :  a  born  comedian, 
if  ever  I  saw  one.  Only  play  the  impostor  on  the  stage 
as  you  played  it  to  me  just  now,  and  France  will  have 
another  Guillot-Gorju." 

When  the  scribe  could  catch  his  breath,  he  became 
busy  with  one  shift  after  another  to  redeem  his  lost 
credit;  but  Jean-Baptiste  was  right  in  that  he  had  a 
vagabond's  heart.  He  had  a  shrew  of  a  wife,  too,  and 
the  thought  of  parting  company  with  her  was  not  un 
pleasant. 

Seeing  him  waver,  the  lad  took  him  up  swiftly.  "  What 
do  you  earn  by  your  scrivening?  A  mere  pittance  to 
keep  the  wolf  from  the  door!  My  friend,  the  role  of 
doctor  would  suit  you  to  a  dot." 

To  be  done  with  George  Pinel,  he  took  the  father's 
money  and  the  son's  advice.  To  exchange  an  ink-pot 
for  a  pair  of  buskins  was  a  matter  of  slight  urging; 
but  when  the  upholsterer  thrust  his  head  through  the 
door  to  see  how  the  fight  waged,  his  foxship  must  needs 
do  a  bit  of  slippery  acting  just  to  test  his  ability  in 
a  new  calling.  With  a  finger  on  his  lips,  he  whispered 
that  Jean-Baptiste  was  headstrong  but  had  listened  to 
wise  counsel;  whereat  the  father  breathed  a  glad  sigh, 
and  the  son,  to  hide  his  merriment,  turned  his  face  to 
the  wall. 

Quiet  reigned  now  in  the  Poquelin  household,  where 
Jean-Baptiste  had  been  rushing  in  and  galloping  away 
and  growing  more  wild  about  Madeleine  with  every  hour. 
But  when  the  story  spread  abroad  that  a  yourrg  law 
student  and  a  strolling  actress  were  engaging  a  theatre 
to  regenerate  the  drama,  the  actors  of  the  Hotel  de  Bour- 
gogne  and  the  Theatre  du  Marais  split  their  sides  until 


82  FAME'S    PATHWAY 

the  echo  of  their  laughter  reached  the  arcades  of  the 
market-place.  Then  the  wool  could  be  pulled  no  more 
over  the  upholsterer's  eyes,  even  by  so  wily  a  rogue  as 
George  Pinel.  However,  a  jovial  friend  of  his  father 
intervened  in  Jean-Baptiste's  behalf.  This  worthy,  by 
name  Leonard  Aubry,  and  a  pavier  in  ordinary  to  the 
king,  argued  that  a  young  man  should  follow  his  bent. 

"  Pardi !  "  said  he,  "  a  good  actor  is  better  than  a 
bad  lawyer." 

"  Thou  hast  a  son,  friend  Aubry,"  answered  Poquelin. 
"  Were  he  one  day  to  become  enamoured  of  a  worthless 
play-actress,  it  would  serve  thee  justly." 

"  Pardi !  chuckled  the  pavier,  "  I  could  not  blame  him 
for  following  in  his  father's  footsteps.  Hast  thou  seen 
La  Beaupre  of  the  Marais  theatre,  friend  Poquelin? 
A  veritable  dream  of  beauty,  as  I  trow !  " 

The  upholsterer's  rage  came  hot  from  his  sordid 
heart.  "  Out  with  thee,  Aubry,  for  mischief-maker ! 
I  '11  have  no  vicious  rogue  like  thee  preaching  sedition 
to  my  son !  " 

The  pavier  shrugged,  as  he  went,  as  if  to  say  to  Jean- 
Baptiste  that  he  pitied  him  but  could  aid  him  no 
further. 

In  a  bad  quarter  of  an  hour  the  young  man  was  con 
vinced  that  he  must  give  up  his  inamorata  or  the  shelter 
of  his  father's  roof,  and,  prodigal  that  he  was,  he 
seized  the  paternal  horn  of  the  dilemma.  He  had  been 
set  upon  by  every  ill-repute;  disgrace  to  his  blood, 
offence  against  God's  law,  vagrancy,  profligacy — all 
these  and  more  were  laid  at  his  door.  But  now,  with 
glance  alight  and  before  his  heart's  eye  a  vision  of  a 
tall  girl  with  blue  eyes  and  smiling  lips,  he  faced  his 
father's  wrath  without  flinching. 


A    FOOL'S    PARADISE  83 

"  Stuffing  chairs  and  making  the  king's  bed  are  not 
the  only  objects  in  life,"  he  said  quite  calmly. 

"  Out,  you  ungrateful  son!  "  fumed  the  parent.  "  If 
ever  you  darken  my  door " 

"  Rest  assured  I  shall  not,  until  the  day  when  you  will 
be  proud  to  have  me." 

Jean-Baptiste  spoke  with  scorn,  but  with  eyes  most 
piteous  searched  his  father's  face.  Out  of  the  wild 
struggle,  a  longing  for  one  look  of  tenderness  arose — 
one  word  of  fellow-feeling  from  some  of  his  kin;  but 
he  knew  that  in  the  adjoining  room  his  innocuous  sis 
ters  dozed  over  their  knitting,  while  a  grinning  brother 
listened,  overjoyed,  with  an  ear  to  the  keyhole. 

Heaven  sends  us  kinsmen,  he  thought,  but  if  the 
devil  inspires  our  choice  of  friends,  he  should  be  given 
his  due  of  thanks;  and  despairing  of  ever  finding  sym 
pathy  at  home,  he  took  a  last  look  at  the  room.  The 
bed  with  its  silken  tester,  the  walnut  cupboards,  the 
seven-legged  table,  the  brass  andirons  in  the  fireplace, 
the  caquetoires  where  old  women  were  wont  to  gossip, 
all  swam  before  his  feverish  eyes — crass  emblems  of 
respectability  and  prejudice.  Better  to  be  the  meanest 
vagabond  on  earth,  he  thought,  than  stifle  in  such  an 
atmosphere.  "  An  outcast  for  her  sake !  God  help 
me !  "  he  prayed ;  then  turned  to  go. 

"  Father,"  he  said  in  a  firm,  calm  voice,  "  time  must 
decide  which  of  us  is  right." 

The  shopkeeper's  breath  came  short  through  his  nose. 

"  Out,  thou  ungrateful  cockerel !  "  he  gasped. 

The  storm  Jean-Baptiste  had  so  long  foreseen  had 
broken  at  last,  but  the  forecast  had  been  more  terrifying 
than  the  deluge.  Aglow  with  a  delicious  sense  of  free 
dom,  he  walked  across  the  market-place,  joyful  enough 


84  FAME'S    PATHWAY 

to  whistle  a  tune  and  compose  a  whole  nosegay  of  verses 
to  Madeleine.  His  first  act,  since  he  now  considered 
himself  perfectly  free,  was  to  go  straightway  to  her 
house  in  the  cul-de-sac  de  Thorigny.  His  step  quick 
ened  as  he  went,  until  he  ran  trembling  into  her  arms. 

"  The  last  bridge  is  burned !  "  he  cried.  "  Dearest,  I 
am  wholly  yours !  " 

Like  a  woman,  she  reproached  him  for  what  she  fondly 
wished.  "  Dear  heart,  you  should  not  have  taken  this 
step !  " 

One  ardent  hand  embraced  her;  the  other  held  her 
face  to  kiss.  "  Then  you  should  not  be  the  adorable 
girl  you  are !  " 

But  she,  worried  by  many  thoughts,  could  not  be  as 
wholly  affectionate  as  he  wished.  He  had  buried  the 
past  that  morning  and  found  the  joyous  present  care 
enough;  but  she,  having  felt  the  hard  raps  of  fortune, 
was  sorely  troubled. 

An  inexperienced  company  to  play  for  the  love  of  art ! 
Small  wonder  veteran  actors  split  their  sides  with  laugh 
ter,  thought  the  girl;  and  did  her  uttermost  to  counsel 
caution.  But  he,  all  afire  with  love  and  ambition,  could 
rave  only  of  her  beauty  and  his  own  overweening  con 
fidence  that  Paris  would  be  at  her  feet. 

"  Six  hundred  livres,"  said  she ;  "a  drop  in  the 
bucket." 

"  It  will  pay  a  month's  rent  of  the  tennis  court,  and 
the  carpenter  to  make  the  alterations." 

She  stood  up,  very  serious.  "  But  in  the  meantime," 
she  said,  "while  the  theatre  is  being  made  ready?" 

"  We  will  go  to  Rouen  and  set  up  our  trestles  at  the 
fair  of  St.  Romain.  What  a  lark,  my  sweet !  " 

He  took  stock  of  their  enterprise. 


A    FOOL'S    PARADISE  85 

The  Mestayers'  tennis-court  in  the  Fosse  de  Nesle, 
where  he  had  first  met  her,  was  to  be  their  theatre. 
Maitre  Gallois,  the  tennis  master,  would  let  it  for  nine 
teen  hundred  livres  a  year.  Ah,  but  she  would  not 
know  the  dingy  old  place  when  a  master  builder  had 
made  his  repairs.  The  Hotel  de  Bourgogne  would  be 
put  in  the  shade  completely. 

"  All  for  six  hundred  livres,"  said  Madeleine. 

"Every  enterprise  must  move  on  credit.  It  is  the 
way  fortunes  are  made,  my  dear." 

"  And  lost,"  answered  the  girl,  thoughtfully. 

He  paid  no  attention  to  her  qualms.  His  small  patri 
mony  would  launch  the  company  and  ensure  it  a  place 
in  the  hearts  of  the  public.  A  band  of  friendly  patrons 
would  be  soon  recruited,  glad  to  pay  most  liberally 
rather  than  that  the  enterprise  should  fail.  As  for  the 
fidelity  of  the  company,  a  lawyer  was  drawing  up  an 
iron-bound  contract  which  all  would  sign — a  contract  in 
which  it  was  expressly  stipulated  that  she,  dear  girl, 
should  choose  the  roles  that  pleased  her. 

Madeleine  listened  dumbly.  The  lad  had  no  after 
thoughts  or  retrospects,  and  he  tried  to  coax  her  into 
acquiescence,  but  she  could  not  free  herself  from  the 
fears  that  disturbed  her.  It  was  a  harebrained  scheme 
to  tax  a  wiser  head  than  his,  and  she  had  been  persuaded 
into  it  against  her  better  judgement. 

But  if  the  Mestayers'  tennis-court  were  actually  en 
gaged,  she  thought,  and  his  word  pledged — then  it  was 
a  point  of  honour  to  uphold  the  enterprise;  so  she  re 
solved  to  browbeat  her  mother  and  her  brother  into 
signing  with  her  the  obligation  for  the  rent.  What 
experience  and  talent  she  possessed  must  be  cast  with 
the  lot  of  this  Illustrious  Theatre.  Yes,  she  had  let 


86  FAME'S    PATHWAY 

the  lad's  heart  be  stolen  together  with  her  own,  but  the 
poor  girl  knew  that  she  was  the  culprit,  and  all  these 
thoughts  working  upon  her  mind  made  her  love  a 
torment. 

Her  suitor's  enthusiasm,  however,  was  boundless.  Of 
Scaramouche,  the  Italian  mime,  he  learned  grimace,  only 
to  scorn  his  master  for  a  mere  buffoon;  for  was  not  he, 
Jean-Baptiste  Poquelin,  soon  to  be  foremost  trage 
dian  of  France — the  superior  of  Montfleury  and  Belle- 
rose!  Meanwhile,  he  presented  his  ill-tutored  com 
pany  to  audiences  of  friends,  only  to  be  told  he  was  a 
fool  to  believe  that  such  a  motley  crew  would  ever  set 
the  world  afire. 

The  sneers  were  galling  to  his  pride ;  yet  he  remained 
undaunted  in  the  hope  that  time  would  prove  his  friends 
were  cavillers.  Love,  indeed,  was  alight  and  blinding 
him  with  the  flame.  He  had  eyes  for  Madeleine  alone. 

"  Dear,"  he  said  to  her  one  day  late  in  June,  when 
the  plans  for  the  enterprise  were  fairly  launched,  "  my 
only  crime  is  loving  you."  And  he  tried  to  draw  her  to 
him. 

"  Jean-Baptiste,"  she  answered,  endeavouring  to  get 
free — but  this  of  course  he  could  not  permit — "  Jean- 
Baptiste,  dear,  I  have  given  you  my  best."  After  he 
had  kissed  her,  she  began  to  speak  more  seriously.  "  I 
doubt  if  my  love  is  worth  the  price  it  has  already  cost. 
Suppose  this  enterprise  should  fail  ?  " 

"  Fail ! "  he  cried,  exultant  as  a  conqueror,  "  the  word 
is  not  in  my  vocabulary." 

His  faith  was  the  conviction  of  youth,  the  glow  in  the 
heart  that  with  every  year  grows  dim  before  the  reality 
of  life. 


CHAPTER  X 

TEMPERED  BLISS 

FLOWERS  made  Madeleine's  garden  a  lovely  place,  and 
Jean-Baptiste  gathered  of  them  to  adorn  her.  Of  the 
forget-me-nots  he  made  garlands  the  colour  of  her  eyes, 
and  decked  her  golden  hair  with  daisies. 

"  Madeleine !  "  he  cried,  "  Queen  Madeleine !  " 

Could  such  ardour  last,  she  asked  herself;  and  from 
her  knowledge  of  men  grave  doubts  arose  in  answer. 
Strange  mixture,  he  seemed,  of  courage  and  fantasy; 
yet  his  love  had  become  her  necessity.  It  had  filled  her 
soul  with  light;  but  should  his  passion  cool,  what  was  to 
become  of  herself?  Mercy  upon  her,  she  dared  not 
think  of  that. 

"  The  young  can  only  love,"  she  said  quickly  to  laugh 
away  fear,  "  and  repent  when  their  beards  are  grey." 

At  this  perversion  of  his  own  words  Jean-Baptiste 
frowned  until  she  drove  herself  to  speak.  "  It  is  so 
easy  for  two  people  to  believe  that  love  will  endure; 
but  there  is  always  one  who  is  mistaken." 

"  Which  of  us,  dear  ? "  he  asked,  smiling ;  "  you 
or  I?" 

She  searched  his  face.  "  You,  I  fear,  since  you  have 
so  many  years  in  which  to  repent." 

He  turned  away  petulantly,  she  catching  his  arm. 
"  Ah,  but  I  should  love  my  boy  were  he  to  tire  of  me 
to-morrow !  " 

He  kissed  her,  then,  and  felt  her  heart  beat.  Love 
seemed  so  strong  and  salient  that  he  could  not  under- 

87 


88  FAME'S    PATHWAY 

stand  her  fears.  He,  a  young  paladin  longing  to  make 
war  upon  the  ignorant  and  biassed,  was  afire  with  ambi 
tion  in  the  guise  of  love;  she  a  cast-off  favourite — she, 
La  Bejart,  was  consumed  by  love  itself.  He  wanted 
the  sun,  the  moon,  and  all  the  stars;  she,  nothing  in  the 
world  but  him. 

But  over  their  ardour  came  cold  laughter  like  a 
shower  to  drench  it;  for,  while  he  kissed  the  lovely  girl, 
two  brazen  ladies  of  their  company  came  tripping 
through  the  garden  with  their  saucy  noses  in  the  air. 
One  was  Catherine  Desurlis,  known  already  to  her  com 
rades  as  "  Trinette  " — a  diminutive  more  suitable  to  her 
volatile  and  tiny  self  than  the  sombre  name  with  which 
she  had  been  christened.  The  other  was  Madeleine 
Malingre,  dubbed  Madelon,  a  blonde  with  a  character 
light  as  her  complexion,  yet  with  a  heart  less  black  than 
her  gypsy-like  companion's. 

"  Of  all  the  forward  dames ! "  declared  Trinette 
Desurlis  at  sight  of  Madeleine  kissed  by  Jean- 
Baptiste. 

"  Of  all  the  shameless  lovers ! "  said  Madelon 
Malingre,  amid  much  cachinnation,  and  dipped  a 
courtesy. 

"  Two  charming  ladies  wait  upon  your  pleasure." 

"  Likewise  a  company  illustrious  in  its  mind's  eye," 
sneered  Trinette,  "  a  company  fretting  in  your  mother's 
house  while  you  are  billing  here!  Methinks  you  have 
laid  a  deep  plan  to  foist  a  homeless  company  on  your 
mother  and  then  decamp." 

Now  Madeleine  had  indeed  a  motive  in  gathering  the 
Illustrious  Theatre  beneath  her  mother's  roof.  It  was 
Marie  Herve's  own  domicile,  unmortgaged  to  the  pay 
ment  of  her  late  lord's  debts;  and  to  make  her  a  part 


TEMPERED    BLISS  89 

and  parcel  of  the  enterprise  was  Madeleine's  unfilial 
plan,  she  seeing  that  Jean-Baptiste?s  livres  were  the 
unstable  scaffolding  on  which  it  tottered.  Already  the 
obligations  accrued  were  many  times  this  paltry  heritage ; 
so  Madeleine  vowed  that  she,  and  her  family  too,  must 
pledge  their  all  to  the  Illustrious  Theatre — an  ardent 
vow  inspired  by  ardent  love.  With  fatuous  argument 
she  had  plied  her  petulant  mother  and  wily  brother, 
until,  in  sheer  despair  at  ever  silencing  her,  they  con 
sented  to  abet  the  harebrained  scheme.  All  this  she 
kept  from  Jean-Baptiste,  and  now  that  Trinette  sniffed 
her  plan  from  afar,  she  temporised. 

"  The  signing  of  the  contract  will  take  place  in  my 
mother's  house  because  it  is  far  roomier  than  mine.  No 
dire  reason  is  necessary,  my  dear  Trinette,  to  explain 
so  simple  a  fact." 

"  However  that  may  be,"  shrugged  the  girl,  "  your 
comrades  await  the  end  of  your  caressing." 

"  Not  to  mention  a  lawyer  and  two  notaries,"  con 
tinued  Madelon  Malingre. 

To  end  this  bantering,  Madeleine  clapped  her  hand 
upon  the  painted  lips  of  Madelon  Malingre,  while  Jean- 
Baptiste,  in  a  moment  of  devilry,  kissed  those  of  Trinette 
Desurlis  because  they  looked  the  more  impertinent,  and 
ran  laughing  to  the  street — a  piece  of  mischief  not  at 
all  to  Madeleine's  liking,  though  she  laughed  the 
merriest  of  all  and  badgered  Jean-Baptiste  for  his 
cowardly  flight. 

A  threadbare  company  awaited  them  in  Marie  Herve's 
house,  for  the  doublets  of  Beys  and  Bejart  might  have 
served  for  prinking  glasses,  so  well  worn  were  they. 
The  shoes  of  Nicolas  Bonnenfant  boasted  a  pair  of 
silver  buckles,  to  be  sure ;  and  George  Pinel,  the  unctuous 


90  FAME'S   PATHWAY 

scribe,  had,  with  money  borrowed  from  Jean-Baptiste's 
father,  bought  himself  a  shoulder  cloak  in  June  against 
the  coming  of  cold  January:  but  except  for  the  plumage 
of  the  ladies'  frailty  and  Germain  Clerin's  crimson  boot- 
hose,  there  was  little  in  the  aspect  of  the  gathering  to 
impress  even  Jean-Baptiste  with  its  illustrious  quality. 

Yet  it  made  good  in  manner  the  part  which  it  lacked 
in  mien.  Beys  and  Bejart  gave  themselves  tragedy 
airs;  Pinel  spouted  Latin  like  a  doctor  of  Padua;  Ger 
main  Clerin,  being  as  great  in  pride  as  in  poverty, 
dubbed  himself  Sieur  de  Villiers,  without  rhyme  or  rea 
son,  and  swung  a  rapier  as  imposing  as  his  pseudonym; 
while  the  ladies,  save  Madeleine,  outdid  the  precious  of 
the  court  in  languishments  and  bows.  There  were  ten 
associates  all  told,  six  of  the  sterner  sex,  four  of  the 
fair — ten  hopeful  vagabonds  proudly  styling  themselves 
"  persons  of  family,"  in  order  that  they  might  not  pass 
for  mere  vulgar  player  folk. 

To  witness  the  contract  and  whine  betimes,  there  was 
slatternly  Marie  Herve,  the  widow  of  the  late  court  crier, 
with  her  baby,  Armande  Bejart,  nestling  in  her  podgy 
arms.  Trinette  Desurlis's  mother,  too,  was  there,  be 
cause  that  sophisticated  girl  was  not  of  age — an  irony 
of  caution,  as  will  be  seen. 

The  lawyer  who  presided  at  the  shabby  conclave  had 
the  cognomen  of  Mareschal.  An  advocate  in  Parlia 
ment  was  he,  whose  robes  were  mottled  with  the  grease 
of  every  cabaret  in  Paris — a  briefless  advocate,  whose 
avocation  was  play-writing.  In  better  days  his 
tragedies  had  seen  the  boards  of  the  Hotel  de  Bour- 
gogne.  Now  his  legal  services  were  given  freely  to 
these  unknown  players  with  the  hope  of  marketing  a 
play  or  two — gradus  ad  Parnassum,  as  he  viewed  it. 


TEMPERED   BLISS  91 

This  out-at-the-elbow  company  and  the  sight  of  the 
contract  which  was  to  bind  him  to  a  life  of  vagabond 
age,  unfolded  and  ready  to  sign,  made  Jean-Baptiste 
reflect  on  the  foolhardy  step  he  was  taking.  To  flount 
himself  out  of  his  father's  house  had  been  a  mere  mat 
ter  of  youthful  impulse,  but  here  were  nine  human  beings 
who  had  accepted  his  leadership.  A  case  of  the  blind 
leading  the  blind,  it  seemed  to  him,  for  what  did  he 
know  of  the  stage  except  the  vague  conviction  that  the 
actor's  art  as  practised  in  his  day  was  false?  Yet  he 
was  sworn  to  lead  this  shoddy,  posturing  crusade — he,  an 
inexperienced  lad  of  twenty-one!  To  convince  himself 
he  had  this  mission  to  perform  had  been  an  easy  task, 
his  love  for  Madeleine  its  natural  corollary.  Only  now 
did  he  feel  the  weight  of  the  burden  he  had  shouldered 
and  realise  what  cutting  aloof  from  home  and  family 
meant. 

"  Fool !     Fool !     Fool !  "  cried  his  throbbing  heart. 

He  saw  the  gentle  eyes  of  Madeleine  gazing  at  him, 
and  pride  arose  in  all  its  strength.  With  hands  tightly 
clinched,  he  ground  his  teeth  in  a  firm  resolve  to  fight 
for  his  beliefs. 

Calmly  now  he  listened  to  lawyer  Mareschal's  mo 
notonous  voice. 

"  Contract  of  copartnership,"  the  man  of  the  robe 
began.  The  names  of  the  signatories  were  passed  over 
quickly  as  agreeing  to  unite  for  the  purpose  of  acting 
under  the  title  of  "  The  Illustrious  Theatre."  Binding 
clauses  followed. 

When  Jean-Baptiste  heard  that  Clerin,  Bejart,  and 
himself  would  play  the  leading  roles  alternately,  his 
heart  beat  suddenly  with  vanity,  then  sank  within  him. 
To  declaim  before  admiring  friends  had  been  rare  sport 


92  FAME'S    PATHWAY 

enough,  but  to  face  a  cold  audience  in  the  glare  of  the 
candles,  with  no  support  but  his  trembling  legs!  The 
very  thought  of  it  made  him  quake  in  his  shoes. 

But  there  was  that  iron-bound  document,  with  a  fine 
of  three  thousand  livres  for  every  deserter  and  four 
months'  notice  before  a  resignation  might  be  accepted. 
He  had  dictated  those  rigid  clauses  himself;  but  if  he 
signed — and  pride  told  him  that  he  must — there  could 
be  no  turning  back.  He  thought  of  a  shop  in  the 
market-place.  Even  his  grinning  brother  seemed  to 
be  of  his  own  flesh,  and  he  longed  to  flee  these 
shabby  comrades,  yearned  to  go  to  his  father  in  all 
humility. 

"  Given  on  the  afternoon  of  the  last  day  of  June  of 
the  year  one  thousand  six  hundred  and  forty-three," 
read  the  man  of  law,  his  chest  swelling  to  forensic 
proportions. 

In  that  moment  all  the  incidents  of  Jean-Baptiste's 
life  came  thronging  back  to  him  as  to  a  drowning  man. 
The  actors  and  the  scented  women  swam  before  his 
trembling  eyes.  He  barely  heard  the  lawyer's  droning 
voice,  "  Will  you  sign,  monsieur  ?  " 

He  took  the  pen  in  his  icy  hand. 

"Are  you  ill?  "  cried  Trinette  Desurlis,  putting  forth 
an  arm  to  steady  him. 

He  drew  his  hand  across  his  face. 

"  It  is  only  the  heat,"  he  muttered,  summoning  all  the 
strength  and  courage  of  his  nature.  Turning  to  Beys, 
he  handed  him  the  pen. 

"  The  most  distinguished  first,"  he  said  in  a  voice 
quite  calm. 

The  wine-bibber  smirked,  and  wrote  with  avidity. 

Jean-Baptiste  turned  to  Joseph  Bejart  then,  but  the 


TEMPERED    BLISS  93 

wily  actor  thought  a  dose  of  flattery  not  unmeet  for  a 
case  of  timidity. 

"  Since  Ri-ri-richelieu  once  clapped  him  in  the 
B-b-bastille  for  too  much  presumption,  it  is  not  sur 
prising  that  such  a  conceited  old  sinner  as  Beys  should 
usurp  the  place  of  our  young  leader,"  stuttered  the  artful 
Joseph ;  "  but  I,  f-f-f or  one,  refuse  to  sign  before  the 
gentleman  to  whose  genius  and  enthusiasm  we  owe  the 
conception  and  accomplishment  of  our  d-d-distinguished 
enterprise." 

Such  an  ado  of  sputtering  and  whistling  accompanied 
this  speech  that  the  company  was  put  in  fine  feather  of 
merriment  and  burst  into  a  chorus  of  applause  so  gen 
uine  that  Jean-Baptiste  forgot  both  apprehension  and 
remorse.  Confused,  blushing,  overjoyed  at  the  unfore 
seen  ovation,  he  would  gladly  have  kissed  again  the  girl 
who  dragged  him  to  the  table,  had  it  not  been  for  Mad 
eleine's  restraining  glance. 

Even  the  lawyer  in  greasy  wig  and  spectacles,  whose 
quill  had  seemed  a  bat-like  claw  pointing  in  derision, 
became  a  messenger  of  light.  The  surety  that  he  could 
brave  all  danger,  the  triumphant  conviction  of  his  power, 
arose  in  all  its  might  to  drive  away  skulking  fear. 
Smiling,  he  glanced  at  the  faces  about  him.  Earnest, 
sympathetic  friends  they  seemed,  in  spite  of  their  dowdy 
clothes,  comrades  who  looked  to  him  for  leadership.  It 
was  youth  with  its  deceitful  strength,  its  romance  of 
illusion;  seizing  the  pen,  he  wrote  in  a  bold,  free  hand, 
"  Jean-Baptiste  Poquelin." 

Trinette  Desurlis  leaned  smiling  on  his  shoulder. 

"  That  name  is  too  long  and  ugly  for  the  stage,"  she 
said. 

"  Too  respectable,  you  mean,"  he  answered,  with  a 


94  FAME'S   PATHWAY 

touch  of  sadness  in  his  voice — the  echo  of  a  remorse  he 
could  not  wholly  stifle. 

Handing  the  pen  to  Bonnenfant,  he  turned  away. 
Trinette  understood  and  followed  him  to  the  window, 
where  he  stood  gazing  into  the  street,  with  a  hand 
tightly  clasped  upon  his  breast. 

"  I  did  not  wish  to  hurt  your  feelings,"  she  whispered, 
coming  quite  close  to  him;  she  had  a  liking  for  him  since 
he  had  kissed  her. 

"  Feelings  are  made  to  hurt,"  he  answered,  picking  up 
a  book  that  lay  upon  the  window  ledge. 

"  I  but  meant  that  it  is  the  custom  for  actors  to  assume 
stage  names,"  Trinette  said  apologetically.  "  Now  that 
you  are  to  be  famous,  it  might  be  well  to  choose  one  that 
would  please  the  public  fancy." 

Madeleine  came  out  of  the  corner  where  she  had  been 
watching,  minded  to  interrupt  this  meddling.  He  di 
vined  this  much  by  the  look  she  sent  the  minx. 

"  Trinette  bids  me  choose  a  name  for  the  stage,"  he 
said,  taking  Madeleine's  hand. 

She  picked  up  the  book  he  had  dropped.  "  A  name  ?  " 
she  repeated. 

"A  name  like  Montfleury  or  Bellerose.  This  lady 
would  have  mine  own  too  ugly  for  the  public  taste." 

With  his  face  close  to  hers,  he  glanced  at  the  book  as 
she  opened  it.  " '  The  Week  of  Bliss/  "  he  whispered, 
reading  the  title ;  "  propitious  omen  for  you  and  me." 

"  By  Francois  de  Moliere,"  she  said. 

"  Poor  man,"  he  laughed,  "  why  should  not  his  name 
be  mine?  He  has  been  dead  these  twenty  years — dead 
and  forgotten." 

"  Moliere,"  she  repeated. 


TEMPERED   BLISS  95 

"  A  week,  nay,  a  whole  month  of  bliss,"  he  whispered 
ardently.  "  The  author's  name  shall  be  mine  own." 

Flushed  and  smiling,  he  faced  the  company.  His 
voice  rang  exultantly  through  the  shabby  room. 

"  No  more  glue,  no  more  law  books,  for  no  longer  am 
I  Poquelin,  the  upholsterer's  son.  Moliere  is  my 
name ! " 

"  A  pretty  name,"  said  Trinette  Desurlis,  her  dark 
eyes  full  upon  him. 

"A  pretty  girl,"  thought  he,  gazing  into  the  tawny 
face. 

Madeleine  caught  the  look  that  passed  between  them 
and  discovered  a  phase  of  him  only  half  suspected  till 
that  moment.  Too  well  versed  in  her  calling  to  disclose 
the  fear  that  trembled  in  her  heart,  she  shouted  merrily : 
"  Hail,  Moliere ! "  Hastening  to  the  sideboard,  she 
pledged  the  newly  christened  actor  in  good,  red  wine — 
his  faith  and  his  future. 


BOOK  THE  SECOND 

What  girl  more  beautiful  than  La  Desurlis  or  more 
capable  of  inspiring  wild  hatred?  .  .  .  Ere  long, 
she  must  have  cast  aside  all  veils  to  appear  as  an  expert 
and  renowned  coquette." 

A.  BALUFFK. 


CHAPTER  I 

THE    KING'S    HIGHWAY 

ALONE  of  a  weary  company,  Jean-Baptiste  gazed  at  the 
valley  of  the  Seine.  There  villages  lay  strewn  like  scat 
tered  toys,  there  lazy  wind-mills  turned  against  an  azure 
sky;  but  Paris  herself  was  hidden  behind  a  bold  hilltop, 
and  with  her  his  shop-ridden  past.  While  com 
rades,  weary  from  their  three  leagues  of  footing,  slept 
beside  the  king's  highway,  the  fires  of  youth  burned 
gaily  in  Jean-Baptiste's  breast.  "  Poquelin  "  was  now 
a  name  to  be  buried  deep;  for  was  he  not  Moliere,  the 
player;  and  was  not  that  fair  sleeping  girl  beside  him 
adorable?  A  pest  upon  your  shibboleths  of  duty! 
His  watchword  was  "  Eternal  Joy !  " 

Nay,  there  was  no  turning  back,  even  had  he  the  mind, 
since  his  all  had  been  pledged  for  the  lease  of  a  play 
house — a  reaching  out  for  triumphs  to  come.  To  Rouen 
for  the  Fair  of  St.  Romain,  and  there  to  bid  for  fame, 
whilst  skilful  artisans  in  Paris  wrought  a  dingy  tennis- 
court  into  a  theatre,  was  the  plan  the  rash  fellow  had 
hatched.  This  mellow  day  in  October  saw  the  first  step 
toward  its  fulfilment — a  day  bright  as  the  enterprise, 
for  a  brilliant  sun  shone  overhead  and  autumn  breezes 
fanned  the  valley  side. 

While  deep-throated  bells  pealed  far  the  noon-day 
Angelus,  fat  Beys  snored  contentedly,  an  empty  flagon 
tight  within  his  fist.  A  new  recruit,  named  Catherine 
Bourgeois,  now  swelled  the  ranks — a  silent  girl,  con 
tent  to  revere  Madeleine  and  keep  her  own  counsel; — 

99 


100  FAME'S   PATHWAY 

therefore,  five  actors  and  five  pretty  dames  lay  stretched 
upon  the  roadside,  whilst  valiant  Moliere,  for  thus  he 
must  be  called  henceforth,  dreamed  upon  fame's  path 
way.  Four  musicians,  asleep  beside  their  drum,  their 
trumpet,  and  their  fiddles,  formed  a  group  apart.  They 
styled  themselves  "  Master  Players  of  Instruments." 

The  material  comforts  of  the  undertaking  were  few — 
a  ponderous  cart  piled  high  with  boxes  and  scenery, 
four  gaunt  oxen,  and  a  pair  of  aged  palfreys  which  the 
actresses  might  mount  in  turn.  But  the  actors'  lot  was 
to  trudge  behind  the  creaking  wheels ;  and  already  Ger 
main  Clerin's  boot-hose  bore  travel  stains,  while  Nicolas 
Bonnenfant  had  lost  a  silver  buckle  from  his  shoes.  As 
for  unctuous  George  Pinel,  his  cloak  was  a  burden  al 
ready,  and  lay  in  the  cart. 

Joseph  Bejart,  the  stutterer,  lying  beside  the  arque- 
buse  he  bore  to  protect  the  caravan  against  marauders, 
was  the  first  to  yawn,  stretch  himself,  and  speak,  and 
that  after  a  dig  in  the  corpulent  ribs  of  Beys. 

"  W-w-wake  up,  thou  drunkard,"  he  cried,  "  the 
d-d-day  is  already  half  spent." 

The  fat  man  grumbled,  grasped  his  flagon  tighter,  and 
snored  again.  A  vigorous  kick  made  him  awake  with  a 
start,  topple  over,  and  crush  his  flagon  into  a  hundred 
bits. 

"  The  bottle  has  been  the  upsetting  of  one  more 
genius,"  laughed  Madelon  Malingre. 

"  Tush,  can  a  fat  sponge  be  a  genius  ?  "  was  the  retort 
of  Trinette  Desurlis. 

"  In  the  words  of  Rabelais,  '  I  drink  no  more  than  a 
sponge/  "  said  Beys,  rubbing  his  blear  eyes.  "  By  Saint 
Genest,  I  wish  it  had  been  a  tun  of  Spanish  wine  in 
stead  of  a  bottle  of  common  grape." 


102  FAME'S    PATHWAY 

Perceiving  Madeleine  and  the  young  actor  standing  by 
the  roadside  amid  lowly  companions,  the  horseman 
smiled  contemptuously.  Moliere  longed  to  seize  the 
arquebuse  that  Joseph  Bejart  bore.  A  ball  through 
Modene's  heart  would  requite  his  hate,  he  thought,  his 
mind  recalling  a  vision  of  him  sitting  on  a  stage,  a  look 
of  surfeit  in  his  cruel  eyes. 

Madeleine,  too,  saw  her  erstwhile  protector.  Pressing 
Moliere's  hand  tremulously,  she  answered  the  very  ques 
tion  his  tongue  dared  not  speak: 

"  The  past  is  dead ;  you  need  not  fear." 

He  was  glad  of  her  reassurance,  for  his  jealous  eyes 
had  read  longing  in  her  glance,  whereas  the  girl's  heart 
suffered  only  contrition. 

"  Madeleine,"  he  cried,  "  if  you  should  ever  turn 
from  me ! " 

"  I  turn  from  you ! "  she  exclaimed.  "  I  see  you 
know  me  not !  " 

Prescient  in  love's  way,  she  saw  his  undoing  in  the 
very  vehemence  of  his  nature,  for  she  knew  whither  his 
ardour  must  lead  him  ere  he  should  learn  the  poignant 
lessons  of  experience.  Meanwhile,  he  felt  a  yearning  to 
confess  the  shame  that  arose  within  him.  He,  the  son 
of  a  bourgeois  of  Paris,  born  to  a  station  at  court,  a 
wretched  vagabond  in  the  dust  of  a  nobleman's  carriage ! 
"  An  outcast ! "  he  thought,  "  an  outcast  for  love  of 
her!" 

"  Are  you  turtle-doves,  to  stand  there  cooing  the 
entire  day  ? "  sneered  Trinette,  with  a  contemptuous 
glance  at  the  lovers. 

The  discomfited  pair  drew  apart;  the  pageant  having 
passed,  meantime,  even  to  the  last  sumpter  mule.  Their 
dreams  had  been  longer  than  they  knew. 


THE   KING'S   HIGHWAY  103 

'  'T  is  t-t-time  to  march/'  said  Bejart,  the  old  stager, 
"  if  we  are  to  sleep  at  Poissy  this  night." 

"  Poissy !  "  exclaimed  Pinel,  wearily.  "  It  lies  two 
leagues  hence !  " 

"  A  day's  march  for  a  torpid  scribe,"  answered  Beys. 

"  I  '11  march  against  a  wine-sack  any  day,"  came 
testily  from  Pinel's  lips. 

"  Pardi,  I'll  smash  an  ink-pot  now!"  cried  Beys, 
doubling  his  plump  fist. 

"  Messieurs !  messieurs !  "  prostested  Moliere,  "  you 
are  not  tavern  brawlers,  remember,  but  illustrious 
players.  Verbum  sat  sapienti,  Pinel.  As  for  you, 
friend  Beys,"  he  continued,  proudly  tapping  the  hilt  of 
the  first  rapier  he  had  ever  worn,  "  a  wine-sack  is 
easily  pricked." 

Provident  words  to  a  pair  of  hectors !  The  scrivener 
retreated,  the  poet  recoiled.  Peace  reigned  once  more; 
meantime,  the  ox-boy  placidly  yoked  his  cattle  to  the 
chariot.  In  a  manner  most  courteous,  Germain  Clerin 
assisted  Madeleine  to  a  seat  upon  a  pile  of  boxes.  Dis 
playing  his  urbanity  anew  in  a  gracious  bow,  he  gave 
a  helping  hand  to  Genevieve  Bejart  and  Catherine 
Bourgeois. 

On  this  final  stage  of  the  day's  journey,  the  palfreys 
were  to  be  ridden  by  Trinette  Desurlis  and  Madelon 
Malingre.  Not  to  be  outdone,  Moliere  held  the  stirrups 
for  both  these  captivating  girls,  and  received  a  recom 
pensing  smile  from  each.  Moreover,  Trinette  pressed 
his  hand,  and  when  he  helped  her  spring  to  the  saddle, 
she  missed  the  pommel:  a  manoeuvre  which  caused  her 
to  fall  into  his  arms,  exclaiming  with  a  little  cry  of 
fright,  "  Ah,  if  you  had  not  been  there !  " 

Perched  upon  her  vantage  pile  of  baggage,  Madeleine 


104.  FAME'S    PATHWAY 

missed  not  a  whit  of  this  coquetry.  It  played  its  in 
tended  part,  however,  for  when  the  little  caravan  took 
up  its  onward  march,  Moliere  walked  beside  the  hussy. 
Being  without  a  particle  of  conscience,  she  had  vowed, 
when  he  kissed  her,  that  he  should  do  so  again,  if  only 
to  vex  Madeleine,  whose  talents  she  envied.  Artfully 
she  made  ready  for  the  onslaught. 

"  The  courage  of  a  hero ! "  she  said  softly,  "  the 
courtesy  of  an  exquisite !  Rare  qualities  in  one  so 
young ! " 

"  You  j  est,  my  lady,"  Moliere  answered  modestly — 
yet  where  is  there  a  young  man  of  one-and-twenty  not 
open  to  cajolery? 

"I  jest?"  protested  Trinette.  "Indeed,  I  saw  the 
prowess  with  which  you  quelled  those  brawlers.  As 
for  your  courtesy,  I  know  it  well,  since  I  became  its 
recipient." 

"  My  arm  but  performed  a  delightful  office,"  he 
answered  laughingly. 

"  I  see  we  must  add  modesty  to  your  attributes."  The 
girl  paused  to  look  down  at  him  from  beneath  her  curl 
ing  lashes.  "  But  you  have  one  very  human  quality," 
she  added. 

"  And  that  quality — ?  "  he  questioned. 

"Jealousy!" 

"A  bold  charge  indeed,  without  evidence." 

"  Evidence !  "  she  laughed.  "  I  saw  the  look  that 
crossed  your  face  when  a  certain  cavalier  rode  by  in  the 
dust  of  a  nobleman's  carriage; — ah,  but  you  have  cause 
for  jealousy,  my  friend." 

"  Cause !  "  he  exclaimed. 

"  Can  it  be  you  know  not  the  story  ?  Its  telling  would 
enlighten  you." 


THE    KING'S   HIGHWAY  105 

Vainly  he  sought  to  turn  the  conversation  into  another 
channel,  but  she  led  him  gently  back  to  the  path  of  her 
intent. 

"  Enticed  by  dreams  of  a  coronet  to  pin  her  faith  to  a 
libertine,  a  certain  lady  who  shall  be  nameless  became 
the  dupe  of  a  promise  made  in  lieu  of  a  priest's  benedic 
tion.  The  day  came  when  her  ensnarer  was  enslaved 
by  younger  charms  than  hers.  To  save  her  face,  she 
made  pretence  of  loving  a  youth,  who  read  her  heart  no 
deeper  than  her  smile.  Ah,  what  a  deal  of  scorn  can 
lie  beneath  a  woman's  smile,  and  what  a  depth  of  love 
a  woman's  heart  can  hold  for  her  betrayer !  " 

The  traitorous  girl  paused  to  watch  the  flight  of  her 
shaft.  She  saw  him  wince  in  silent  pain,  and  smiled. 
Too  deeply  hurt  to  make  reply,  too  chivalrous  to  let  this 
innuendo  pass  without  protest,  he  turned  away  to  join 
Madelon  Malingre.  He  made  a  show  of  talking  to  this 
other  girl;  but  chancing  to  look  up,  he  saw  Madeleine, 
swaying  to  the  jolts  of  the  ox-cart. 

"  Ah,  no,  it  is  not  true,  this  false  girl's  tale !  "  his 
faith  cried  out;  and,  basking  in  the  clarifying  light  of 
love,  he  walked  through  the  dust  far  easier  of  mind;  yet 
the  girl  whose  stirrup  he  held  to  aid  him  in  his  march 
remarked  his  abstraction.  Rather  than  lay  bare  his 
heart,  he  sighed,  "  Avaunt,  thou  demon  jealousy, 
avaunt ! "  In  a  trice  his  spirits  rose,  and  banishing 
weariness  of  mind  and  limb,  he  trudged  along,  dreaming 
of  fame,  noting  the  passers-by  with  keen  glance. 

Now  it  was  a  sleek  priest,  mumbling  prayers  from  a 
breviary;  now  a  ragged  mendicant,  his  clacking  sabots 
stuffed  with  straw,  his  wooden  porringer — the  passport 
of  rascals — slung  at  his  girdle.  When  a  fine  lady 
passed  in  her  coach,  the  sight  was  more  pleasing;  or  per- 


106  FAME'S    PATHWAY 

chance  a  cavalier  with  plumes  and  jingling  spurs  rode 
by,  to  be  followed  apace  by  haggling  merchants.  But 
the  vagabonds  he  met  appealed  to  him  more — the  vet 
erans  of  Rocroy  begging  their  way  toward  home,  the 
vagrants  at  the  cross-roads,  all  with  hands  outstretched. 

A  reeking  band  of  gypsies  passed — the  women  and 
children  crowded  in  a  rickety  cart,  riding  three  astride 
upon  skinny  horses,  or  tramping  the  high-road  beneath 
the  weight  of  pots  and  kettles;  the  men,  with  feathers 
in  their  frayed  felt  hats,  swinging  gaily  along,  with  no 
more  burden  to  bear  than  the  guns  upon  their  shoulders. 
A  swarthy  young  fellow  of  his  own  age  appeared  to  be 
the  leader  of  the  crew,  and  as  he  swaggered  by,  with  a 
rapier  swinging  from  a  tarnished  baldrick,  he  could  not 
help  comparing  the  rascal  to  himself.  Were  they  not 
both  derelicts  on  Fortune's  sea,  both  vagabonds  without 
the  church's  pale?  Indeed,  save  for  the  dirt,  the  dif 
ference  between  these  Romanies  and  his  own  sorry  car 
avan  was  slight.  Madeleine,  perched  upon  a  throne  of 
baggage,  might  pass  for  a  gypsy  queen,  and  he,  with  a 
feather  in  his  hat,  for  the  chief  of  her  tawny  band. 

Meditating  thus,  he  walked  beside  La  Malingre  until 
they  reached  the  purlieus  of  a  town;  then  this  lady,  ex 
asperated  by  his  silence,  spoke. 

"  You  are  a  strange  creature,"  she  said :  "  not  a  word 
has  passed  your  lips  this  half-hour." 

"  I  was  thinking  that  humility  was  the  rarest  of 
virtues." 

"  And  why  so  vain  a  conclusion  ?  " 

"  Because,  barely  a  year  ago,  I  travelled  in  the  king's 
suite,  where  humility  is  unknown." 

"  The  king's  suite !  "  exclaimed  the  girl  excitedly. 

"  Yes ;  during  three  months  of  each  year  my  father 


THE    KING'S   HIGHWAY  107 

makes  the  royal  bed.  Being  his  heir,  I  replaced  him  in 
that  function  last  autumn  while  the  late  king  and  Rich 
elieu  journeyed  to  Narbonne." 

"  Ah,  what  an  experience !  "  sighed  Madeleine  Malin- 
gre  enviously.  "  Would  that  I  might  taste  court  life !  " 

"  You  might  find  it  gall,"  he  answered  thoughtfully. 
"  At  least  so  it  proved  to  the  Marquis  de  Cinq  Mars,  the 
king's  favourite,  arrested  for  high  treason  while  he 
tarried  at  Narbonne." 

"  Ah,  but  the  game  he  played  was  well  worth  while !  " 
exclaimed  the  girl. 

Moliere's  face  grew  sombre.  "You  would  not  speak 
thus  had  you  seen  him  haunting  the  king's  shadow  after 
the  royal  presence  had  been  denied  him.  He  knew  the 
implacable  cardinal  was  plotting  his  downfall,  but 
rather  than  flee  to  safety,  he  induced  the  king's  usher 
to  let  him  appear  each  morning  at  the  hour  of  the  levee 
so  that  his  fellow-courtiers  might  not  learn  of  his  dis 
grace.  For  a  fortnight  he  played  this  sorry  farce,  hid 
ing  in  the  shadow  of  a  door  while  his  colleagues  made 
obeisance.  Then  he  was  seized,  together  with  his  friend 
De  Thou,  and  dragged  to  Lyons  to  die  upon  the  scaf 
fold.  Ah,  what  refinement  of  cruelty  the  vindictive 
Richelieu  displayed !  He  was  a  dying  man  himself,  yet, 
rather  than  show  Christian  mercy  to  a  foe,  he  had  both 
Cinq  Mars  and  De  Thou  towed  up  the  Rhone  behind  his 
barge  so  that  he  might  gloat  upon  their  misery  whilst 
his  own  life  ebbed." 

The  young  man's  brow  darkened  as  he  told  this  tale, 
and  his  lips  set  tightly,  for  the  fate  of  these  fallen 
favourites  had  taught  him  the  ingratitude  of  kings. 

To  Madelon  Malingre  the  tale  was  engaging.  With 
a  woman's  reverence  for  rank,  she  looked  upon  this 


108  FAME'S   PATHWAY 

comrade  who  had  been  to  court  with  a  feeling  akin  to 
awe,  until  her  woman's  curiosity  prompted  her  to  ask  a 
blunt  question. 

'  'T  is  said  in  Paris  that  you  renounced  your  in 
heritance  for  our  fair  Madeleine's  sake.  Is  it  true?  " 

"  For  my  own  sake,  I  renounced  the  right  to  make  the 
king's  bed/'  he  answered,  in  a  tone  of  bitterness.  "  For 
three  months  each  year,  I  might  have  cringed  in  a  pack 
of  royal  hounds  with  a  collar  about  my  neck;  but  I 
preferred  to  follow  my  bent." 

"Which  is,  apparently,  a  certain  lady,"  laughed  the 
girl.  "  Ah,  what  a  deal  of  trouble  we  women  create !  " 

Meanwhile  the  little  caravan  halted  before  the  door 
of  an  inn,  and  a  crowd  of  urchins  began  to  hoot  and 
scoff — a  troupe  of  actors  being  fair  game  for  ridicule. 


CHAPTER  II 

FOREST    ADVENTURES 

THE  town  was  St.  Germain-en-Laye ;  the  inn,  a  modest 
hostelry  where  the  footsore  longed  to  tarry.  "  Four 
leagues  of  trudging  since  the  dawn;  a  day's  journey, 
forsooth !  "  whined  the  neophytes ;  but  Joseph  Bej  art, 
the  veteran,  scorned  such  feebleness  and  held  for  a 
tramp  through  the  forest  to  Poissy. 

"  Bandits  lurk  in  every  forest,"  grumbled  Beys. 

"True,"  exclaimed  George  Pinel;  "the  invalided 
soldiers  of  the  Due  d'Enghien  must  rob  or  starve ! " 

"  And  Mazarin's  tax-gatherers  have  stripped  the 
fields  so  bare  that  the  peasants  must  rob  or  starve  as 
well,"  added  Bonnenfant. 

"  The  bandits  who  rob  actors  must  st-st-starve  per 
force,"  stuttered  Bej  art  sententiously. 

Moliere's  argument  was  more  alluring.  "  At  Poissy," 
he  said,  "  we  may  bathe  in  the  Seine." 

Even  the  most  jaded  of  the  company  saw  the  com 
fort  of  this. 

"  I  hold  for  Poissy !  "  said  Beys. 

"  And  I  as  well,"  said  Clerin ;  so  the  day  was  carried 
for  the  onward  march. 

The  actresses,  meantime,  had  been  too  busily  engaged 
in  defending  their  charms  to  take  part  in  the  argument, 
for,  while  the  actors  bandied  words,  they  were  besieged 
by  the  loiterers  about  the  inn  with  offers  of  gallantry 
and  ribald  compliment. 

109 


110  FAME'S   PATHWAY 

Enjoying  this  sport  mightly,  Trinette  shot  many  a 
bold  glance  into  the  smickering  crowd;  but  to  Made 
leine,  who  knew  from  sad  experience  the  intentions  of 
these  idlers,  the  order  to  march  was  a  boon.  It  came 
after  young  Moliere  had  treated  his  comrades  to  a  cup 
of  cheer. 

Leaving  the  village  rakes  to  their  dice-cups,  the  cara 
van  fared  on ;  but  the  feet  of  the  actors  dragged  wearily ; 
their  muscles  ached;  and  as  they  tramped  behind  the 
wheels  of  their  chariot,  the  only  words  from  their  parch 
ing  lips  were  curses  on  the  stutterer  who  had  beguiled 
them  from  a  friendly  inn. 

In  the  cool  of  the  forest,  dogs  and  urchins  no  longer 
yelped  at  their  heels ;  but  even  this  leafy  haven  proved  a 
slight  blessing.  Although  a  breeze,  brisk  and  fresh, 
fanned  their  temples,  and  deep  shadows  fell  on  banks 
of  brilliant  moss,  four  leagues  were  a  day's  journey  for 
all  these  Thespians  save  Bejart.  He  alone  marched 
alert.  The  others  loitered  pitifully;  even  the  oxen  cast 
longing  eyes  at  the  roadside  grass;  but  the  way  lay 
ahead,  a  grey,  tapering  perspective  between  two  ram 
parts  of  green  with  no  apparent  end. 

The  whole  forest  seemed  at  peace.  A  sweet  smell  of 
woods  was  in  the  air,  birds  sang  in  the  bushes,  and  the 
sun  kissed  the  tree-tops;  but  even  Moliere,  with  a  soul 
for  poetry,  could  only  lag  wearily.  Pretty  Madeleine, 
swaying  in  the  ox-cart,  seemed  merely  a  tempter  to  his 
tired  eyes — a  wood-nymph,  luring  him  to  ruin.  Yet 
the  sight  of  her  led  him  on,  though  many  a  time  he  was 
minded  to  plunge  into  a  thicket  and  flee  toward  Paris. 

The  caravan  was  an  ill-ordered  company  now — two 
fagged-out  nags  on  which  two  ladies  rode,  a  creaking 
cart,  and  a  straggling  line  of  panting  men,  with  Bejart 


FOREST    ADVENTURES  111 

marching  in  the  van,  an  arquebuse  upon  his  shoulder. 
Finally,  it  reached  a  cross-roads  and  plunged  northeast 
into  a  giant  growth  of  trees.  Here  the  road  sank  be 
tween  two  banks  of  earth,  each  capped  by  huge  oaks 
growing  so  densely  that  their  branches  locked  overhead 
in  a  bower  too  deep  for  the  sun  to  penetrate.  It  seemed 
as  if  a  cavern  had  been  formed  by  nature,  and  the 
keen-eyed  Bejart  liked  not  the  aspect,  for  he  heard 
hoof-beats.  These  being  troublous  times,  he  unslung  his 
arquebuse  and  shouted  a  warning  to  his  comrades.  Be 
fore  the  tired  actors  could  close  their  ranks,  three 
villainous  horsemen  galloped  around  a  bend  in  the  road. 

Not  relishing  the  look  of  them,  Bejart  primed  his 
weapon.  Being  soldiers  of  fortune  inclined  to  recoup 
their  losses  at  lansquenet,  the  riders  cocked  theirs  as 
well.  A  meeting  with  rich  merchants  had  been  more 
to  their  liking.  A  troupe  of  strolling  players! — worth 
a  scuffle  at  least.  Flushed  with  the  wine  of  Poissy,  they 
dug  spurs  into  their  chargers. 

The  actors  paled.  The  girls  on  the  palfreys 
screamed  in  wild  terror.  Joseph  Bejart  fired  his  arque 
buse.  The  bullet,  speeding  wide  of  its  mark,  splintered 
the  oxen's  yoke;  the  meek  animals,  frightened,  swerved 
against  a  tree;  the  cart  upsetting,  Madeleine,  her  sister, 
and  Catherine  Bourgeois  were  dumped  shrieking  upon 
the  ground  amid  bundles  and  boxes. 

With  a  blow  from  his  pistol  butt,  the  rascal  at  whom 
Bejart  had  fired  sent  the  stutterer  tumbling  into  a  bank 
of  loose  earth ;  his  comrades  charged  the  caravan.  Young 
Moliere  brandished  a  weapon,  but  a  levelled  firearm  had 
him  crying  for  quarter.  There  were  cries  to  surrender; 
then  it  became  a  chasing  of  sheep.  In  a  twinkling,  actors, 
fiddlers,  and  ox-boy  stood  quaking,  with  hands  uplifted. 


FAME'S   PATHWAY 

One  mustachioed  villain  mounted  guard  from  his 
charger's  back;  another  dismounted  to  rifle  the  pockets; 
but  for  the  rogue  who  had  ridden  Bej  art  down,  there  was 
no  thought  of  plunder  when  shapely  girls  were  sprawling 
on  the  grass.  Leaping  from  his  horse,  he  ran  chuckling 
toward  Madeleine,  who  was  trying  to  extricate  herself 
from  a  heap  of  baggage. 

Finding  himself  overlooked,  the  stutterer  rubbed  some 
consciousness  into  his  cracked  skull,  crawled  beneath 
the  overturned  cart,  and  began  to  reload  his  weapon. 
Madeleine  was  brought  ruthlessly  to  her  senses,  mean 
while,  by  the  bully  who  dragged  her  to  her  feet. 

"  You  're  a  likely  wench,"  the  fellow  chuckled,  as  he 
pinched  the  roses  in  her  cheeks. 

She  shivered  and  hung  her  head.  "  You  pretty  bag 
gage,"  he  continued,  and  sought  to  draw  her  toward  him, 
but  she  resisted  so  strenuously  that  he  had  to  give  over. 
Spying  a  coil  of  rope,  he  seized  it  and  cut  a  dozen  bits 
of  equal  length.  Blinking  his  eyes  meaningly,  he  strode 
toward  the  actors,  who  stood  trembling  beneath  a  second 
robber's  pistol.  White  to  the  lips,  Madeleine  saw  him 
bind  her  comrades  one  by  one.  All  the  prisoners  being 
well  secured,  once  more  he  turned  his  leering  eyes  on 
her.  When  he  seized  her  wrists,  she  dropped  on  her 
knees  and  tried  to  plead.  The  words  died  in  her 
throat. 

Moliere,  tugging  at  his  knots,  divined  the  man's  pur 
pose.  Filled  with  unspeakable  rage,  he  stood  there 
helpless,  his  eyes  dilating  with  hate  and  terror.  Passion 
however,  had  so  possessed  the  brute  that  he  did  not  see 
lean  Bej  art  poise  his  weapon.  This  time  the  stutterer's 
aim  was  truer.  His  shot  was  followed  by  a  cry  of  pain. 
Groaning,  swaying  like  a  broken  bough,  the  scoundrel 


FOREST    ADVENTURES  113 

loosened  his  hold  on  Madeleine  to  clinch  a  pistol,  wheel 
toward  Bejart,  and  fire. 

The  aim  of  a  shattered  arm  was  unsteady,  but  the 
shooting  not  without  profit.  Startled  by  the  first  shot 
from  Bej  art's  weapon,  a  patrol  of  king's  foresters  had 
Ibeen  scouring  the  woods  for  poachers.  An  arquebuse 
answered  by  a  pistol !  A  battle,  morbleu !  thought  these 
preservers  of  the  royal  game  while  charging  in  hot  haste. 
.Scrambling  through  a  coppice,  they  reached  the  road 
bank. 

A  handful  of  pinioned  men!  A  pair  of  miscreants 
aiding  a  wounded  comrade !  Prescience  was  not  needed 
to  divine  that  the  rogues  were  cut-throats. 

"  Surrender !  "  cried  the  chief  of  the  foresters.  "  Sur 
render,  in  the  king's  name ! " 

Fearing  to  kill  women  if  they  fired,  the  rescuers 
clambered  down  the  hillside.  Consternation  was  on  the 
faces  of  the  rogues  below,  for  there  was  no  chance  to 
fight  and  scarce  a  chance  to  flee. 

Seeing  the  plight,  the  ruffian  who  still  sat  his  horse 
was  off  at  a  gallop.  The  one  left  with  an  injured  mate 
proved  no  braver.  To  vault  into  his  saddle  was  easy 
enough;  to  shake  off  the  terrified  comrade  who  grasped 
the  bridle  a  task  more  arduous.  Seeing  the  foresters 
priming  their  weapons,  he  was  minded  to  shoot 
.the  wounded  man;  yet,  being  not  wholly  without 
pity,  he  seized  his  collar  instead  and  dragged  him  to  a 
seat  upon  the  horse's  rump.  His  spurs  drew  blood  from 
the  animal's  flanks.  His  shot  at  the  stutterer  flashed  in 
the  pan.  The  woods  trembled  then  to  the  yelp  of  the 
foresters'  guns,  but  a  hole  through  a  feathered  hat  was 
the  only  result. 

Through  the  smoke,  the  shaking  prisoners  saw  two 


FAME'S    PATHWAY 

rogues  upon  a  single  horse  galloping  toward  Paris.  Save 
for  the  losses  of  their  purses,  their  joy  was  unqualified. 
To  cut  the  ropes  that  bound  them  was  the  work  of  a 
moment;  to  thank  the  rescuers,  a  matter  of  some 
duration. 

Grateful  Madeleine  threw  her  arms  about  the  grizzly 
leader  of  the  band — a  veteran  of  the  siege  of  La 
Rochelle, — an  example  followed  by  each  actress  in  the 
troupe.  Meantime,  the  horse  of  the  wounded  man  can 
tered  away;  thereby  depriving  these  actors  of  the  one 
lucrative  result  of  their  plight. 

Too  many  bullets  had  whizzed  past  Joseph  Bej  art's 
head  for  him  to  take  count  of  the  predicament;  Moliere 
still  trembled  with  rage;  the  others  were  but  cravens 
any  way.  Their  plight  was  indeed  sorry;  yet,  the  dan 
ger  being  past,  sheer  exhaustion  made  these  hapless  ones 
drop  panting  by  the  roadside,  little  caring  that  an  axle 
of  their  chariot  was  broken  and  their  pistoles  jingling 
in  the  pockets  of  their  despoilers.  Even  Madeleine  was 
at  her  wits'  end,  for  she  saw  the  grey-haired  chief  of 
the  foresters  collecting  his  band  to  march  away. 

"  Sir,"  she  pleaded,  "  take  pity  on  our  miserable  lot. 
We  were  to  pass  the  night  at  Poissy, — those  wretches 
have  taken  our  last  denier." 

Longing  and  prayer  quavered  in  her  voice.  The  man 
surveyed  her  from  head  to  foot.  She  had  kissed  him, 
and  he  was  not  without  liking  for  a  pretty  face. 

"  Our  lodge  is  hard  by,"  he  grunted. 

"  Ah,  sir,"  she  cried,  with  tears  in  her  eyes,  "  grati 
tude  is  a  poor  word  at  such  a  time ! " 

The  oxen  were  unyoked,  the  baggage  was  concealed 
in  a  clump  of  trees.  This  accomplished,  there  seemed 
not  a  particle  of  vigour  left  in  all  that  company;  for 


FOREST    ADVENTURES  115 

they  were  bourgeois  of  Paris,  unused  to  misadventures 
such  as  the  day's  round  had  brought  forth.  Now,  with 
the  sun  still  an  hour  high,  they  viewed  the  wreckage  of 
their  enterprise  with  scarce  enough  ambition  alight  in 
them  to  propel  their  legs  to  the  forester's  lodge. 

Moliere,  the  most  crestfallen,  sought  an  outcome  to 
their  misfortune.  Poissy  was  a  town  scarce  a  league 
away,  and  money  a  sore  need.  There  were  the  nags,  on 
which  Trinette  and  Madelon  Malingre  still  sat;  there 
were  two  comrades,  too,  on  whom  he  might  count — 
Madeleine  and  her  brother.  Often  on  the  Pont  Neuf 
he  had  seen  the  buffoons  of  Bary,  the  quack,  make  a 
crowd  of  idlers  laugh  at  some  rough  farce  or  other. 
Might  not  Madeleine,  Joseph  Bejart,  and  himself  do  as 
much  with  the  yokels  of  Poissy  for  coppers  enough  to 
take  their  dej  ected  company  upon  another  stage  ? 

The  plan  seemed  feasible,  so  he  broached  it  to  Made 
leine.  She,  being  a  girl  of  resource,  entered  heartily 
into  it.  Long  ere  the  forester's  lodge  was  reached,  the 
scheme  was  hatched.  Being  the  more  tractable  of  the 
ladies  who  rode,  Madelon  Malingre  was  dispossessed  of 
her  horse  for  Madeleine's  use,  while  to  Beys  the  entire 
plan  was  confided  with  the  injunction  that  he  do  his  ut 
most  to  hold  the  troupe  loyal  during  the  absence  of  the 
foragers.  The  case  of  the  valiant  rescuers  was  more 
difficult.  Having  seen  an  adolescent  gleam  in  their  hoary 
chief's  glance,  Madeleine  knew  that  his  offer  of  hospi 
tality  contained  latent  projects;  yet  she  threw  herself 
boldly  on  his  mercy,  winning  pity  for  her  lot,  a  promise 
of  food  and  shelter  for  her  comrades. 

As  Madeleine,  her  brother,  and  Moliere  dropped 
stealthily  behind  their  comrades,  zeal  sparkled  in  the 
eyes  of  all  three.  Tramping  through  devious  forest 


116  -FAME'S   PATHWAY 

ways  to  the  high-road,  they  found  their  oxen  browsing 
by  the  roadside,  and  the  boy  who  tended  them  asleep. 
vRansacking  their  baggage  for  some  comic  costumes,  they 
journeyed  on,  their  undertaking  having  given  them  new 
courage;  yet  there  were  slopes  to  climb  and  brooks  to 
ford  and  the  matter  of  a  play  to  be  considered. 

They  debated  of  ways  and  means,  and  seemed  in  doubt 
till  Moliere  came  forward  with  a  project  of  his  own. 
If  a  farce  was  not  at  hand,  a  farce  must  be  constructed, 
he  maintained,  after  the  manner  of  Scaramouche  and  his 
Italians.  "  Their  plays  are  but  frameworks,"  said  he; 
"  the  actors'  ready  wit  supplies  the  lines." 

"Ay,  but  the  f-f-f  ramework  ?  "  protested  Bejart. 

"A  scene  from  Rabelais,  a  tale  from  Boccaccio.  A 
play  is  only  an  acted  story ! " 

"Ay,  but  the  st-st-story?  "  whined  Bejart. 

"  The  first  that  comes  to  hand !  Say  that  tale  from  the 
Decameron  wherein  a  jealous  husband  locks  his  flighty 
wife  out-of-doors  until  she,  with  a  ruse  of  drowning 
herself  in  a  near-by  well,  induces  him  to  come  forth  in 
search  of  her,  only  to  find  that  she  has  slipped  past 
him  in  the  dark  and  locked  the  door  on  him." 

"  Bah!  "  said  Bejart,  "  who  is  to  p-p-play  the  well? " 

"  The  well  ?  "  laughed  Moliere.  "  A  knife,  with  which 
the  lady  pretends  to  stab  herself;  thus  must  we  em 
broider.  You,  Bejart,  shall  be  the  husband — a  drunken 
lout  whom  Madeleine,  your  pretty  wife,  abhors.  I  shall 
play  a  learned  doctor  from  whom  you  seek  advice  for 
the  government  of  your  spouse.  I  shall  overwhelm  you 
with  hog  Latin  until  you  flee  in  despair;  whereupon  I 
shall  become  Madeleine's  lover.  You  surprise  her  in  my 
company,  then  lock  her  out-of-doors.  Pretending  to  kill 
herself  in  despair,  she  forces  you  to  come  forth  in  search 


FOREST    ADVENTURES  117 

of  her,  only  to  steal  past  you  and  bolt  the  door.  Ap~ 
pearing  as  her  irate  father,  I  force  you  to  apologise  to 
her  for  returning  home  drunkenly  at  such  an  unseason 
able  hour — a  propitious  ending  to  a  play  we  three  can 
act  readily." 

Madeleine  listened  attentively.  She  wondered  whither 
this  new  gallop  of  his  fancy  would  carry  them,  but  held 
her  counsel  lest  her  doubts  should  wound  him.  The 
qualms  of  her  brother  Joseph  vanished  in  his  concep 
tion  of  a  likely  part. 

"I'll  p-p-play  the  role  of  w-w-what's-his-name  ?  "  he 
said. 

"'What's-his-name'?"  laughed  Moliere.  "Daub  a 
beard  of  charcoal  on  your  chin,  and  bushy  eyebrows  on 
your  brow  like  those  of  the  knaves  who  robbed  us,  and 
dub  yourself  Smutty  Face." 

"  Then  the  name  of  our  farce  shall  be  '  The  Jealousy 
of  Smutty  Face ',"  cried  Madeleine  gaily.  "  And  since 
to  live  with  such  a  brute  requires  a  saintly  nature,  I  will 
call  myself  Angelica." 

"  A  most  appropriate  name  for  so  divine  a  creature," 
said  Moliere,  affecting  more  raillery  than  he  felt.  Only 
a  firm  resolve  to  do  or  perish  made  him  appear  so  deb 
onair,  for  a  tide  of  deep  despair  was  beating  at  his 
heart.  To  return  to  the  shop-bound  life  he  had  fore 
sworn,  meant  death  to  his  soul !  His  motionless  eyes  told 
Madeleine  that  he  was  playing  a  part. 

"  Brave  lad !  "  she  murmured,  "  brave  lad !  " 


CHAPTER    III 

HONEST    LAUGHTER 

As  the  sun's  last  rays  were  gilding  the  Seine,  Moliere, 
dusty  and  famished,  entered  the  market-place  at  Poissy. 
Behind  him  rode  Madeleine,  and  by  her  side  tramped 
Bejart,  his  arquebuse  upon  his  shoulder,  a  bandage  on 
his  battered  head.  Although  the  girl's  garments  had  a 
touch  of  city  finery,  those  of  her  companions  looked  so 
dilapidated  that  the  dogs  of  Poissy  barked.  Ragamuf 
fins  hooted,  too,  as  this  sorry  trio  halted  before  the  door 
of  the  tavern  of  the  Golden  Sun,  where  a  group  of  fat 
citizens  sat  tippling.  Indeed,  so  great  was  the  com 
motion  caused  by  the  advent  of  these  wayfarers  that  the 
provost  of  the  town  strode  forth  to  demand  their  quality. 

The  plume  in  this  official's  hat  was  crimson  as  his 
nose,  his  cloak  as  purple  as  his  face.  "  Your  name  and 
business  ?  "  he  asked  with  an  air  of  importance. 

"  I  am  called  Moliere.  This  lady  is  Mademoiselle 
Bejart,  famed  as  a  comedienne  from  Languedoc  to  Brit 
tany.  The  third  member  of  our  troupe  is  her  brother, 
Joseph  Bejart,  most  valiant  of  actors.  Our  business  is 
to  provide  diversion  for  people  of  taste  and  quality — 
be  it  tragedy,  tragi-comedy,  comedy,  or  farce." 

Seeing  a  pretty  actress  gazing  at  him,  the  provost 
jauntily  tilted  his  rapier,  and  the  tip  of  its  scabbard, 
hitting  his  broad-brimmed  hat,  made  that  article  topple 
forward  on  his  nose  in  a  way  so  comic  that  the  spec 
tators  laughed  uproariously. 

118 


HONEST    LAUGHTER  119 

To  regain  his  lost  dignity,  the  official  became  ruthless. 

"  We  want  no  impious  vagabonds  in  Poissy,"  he 
stormed,  rectifying  the  disturbed  composure  of  his  hat. 
"  Out  of  this  town,  say  I ;  else  I  '11  clap  you  into  gaol." 

Madeleine's  wit  came  to  the  rescue.  "  Can  such  in 
justice  be?  "  she  asked.  "  If  the  noble  provost  of  Poissy 
were  here,  the  far-famed  Sieur  de-de-de-de  .  .  ." 
here  she  hesitated,  arching  her  eyebrows  inquiringly. 

"  The  Sieur  de  la  Filoutiere,"  said  the  hectoring  offi 
cial,  with  pride. 

"  Precisely !  If  the  noble  Sieur  de  la  Filoutiere  were 
here,"  she  continued,  addressing  the  throng  about  her, 
"we  should  have  justice,  for  in  Paris  they  say  that  he 
is  the  most  valiant  provost  in  France." 

The  urchins  howled  in  derision;  the  burghers  snick 
ered;  but  the  officer,  finding  himself  estimated  at  his  own 
valuation,  acknowledged  himself  to  be  this  Sieur  de  la 
Filoutiere  whose  fame  had  spread  abroad. 

"  But  how  am  I  to  believe  that  you  are  actors,"  he 
questioned,  "  since  you  are  but  three,  and  have  no  bag 
gage?  " 

"  Our  t-t-troupe  is  as  complete  as  that  of  F-f-floridor 
or  Filandre,  or  any  actor  who  travels,"  said  Bejart, 
dropping  the  butt  of  his  weapon  on  the  flagstones  with 
a  thud.  "  If  we  are  but  three,  it  is  because  we  have  met 
m-m-mis  fortune." 

"  Ay,"  answered  Moliere,  vehemently.  "  In  the  forest 
of  St.  Germain  we  were  set  upon  by  three  armed  mis 
creants  and  robbed.  But  for  the  lucky  intervention  of 
a  patrol  of  king's  men,  we  should  have  been  murdered 
too.  Our  destitute  comrades  await  our  return." 

"  Humph,"  grunted  La  Filoutiere,  "  a  likely  tale." 

Madeleine   saw   the   need   of    further   blandishment: 


120  FAME'S   PATHWAY 

"  Had  the  brave  provost  of  Poissy  been  there,  we  should 
not  have  been  robbed  of  our  last  ecu." 

"And  the  knaves  who  robbed  you?"  asked  La  Filou- 
tiere,  dubiously. 

"  Off  to  Paris  with  their  plunder." 

"  If  I  mistake  not,"  said  the  landlady  of  the  tavern, 
a  plump  dame  with  a  jolly  face,  who  stood  with  arms 
akimbo,  listening,  "  they  are  the  very  rogues  who  diced 
the  afternoon  away  at  my  inn  with  a  young  gentleman 
from  Paris,  only  to  set  upon  him  when  they  had  lost. 
They  would  have  had  his  life,  I  truly  believe,  had  not 
the  retainers  of  a  grand  seigneur,  then  alighting  at  my 
door,  rescued  the  victim  from  their  blows.  Alas,  the 
seigneur,  seeing  my  house  a  brawling-place,  fared  on 
without  stopping ;  while  the  rogues  took  to  horse  without 
paying  their  score." 

"  You  see,"  said  Moliere,  "  we  are  worthy  people 
whose  tale  is  corroborated." 

With  some  show  of  reluctance,  the  provost  admitted 
as  much;  whereat  Madeleine,  whose  curiosity  was 
aroused,  addressed  the  landlady: 

"  But  the  young  gentleman  from  Paris,  did  he  flee 
as  well  ?  " 

"  Ma  foi,  no.  He  drank  himself  into  a  stupor,  and 
now  sleeps  in  a  chamber  overhead.  To  ensure  the  pay 
ment  of  his  score,  I  have  locked  up  his  clothes." 

Moliere  saw  an  opening.  "  And  to  ensure  three  pen 
niless  actors  a  supper,  will  you  grant  us  permission  to 
play  in  your  tap-room  ?  " 

"  Ma  foi,  I  would,"  said  the  landlady,  "  but,  you  are 
only  three." 

"  Nevertheless  we  will  play  you  a  farce  as  side-split 
ting  as  any  for  which  Gaultier  Garguille  or  Gros  Guil- 


HONEST    LAUGHTER  121 

laume  was  famed.  If  it  be  a  matter  of  tragedy, 
we  can  be  as  affected  as  Bellerose,  as  blatant  as 
Mondory." 

"  Mondory !  "  exclaimed  the  landlady.  "  Him  you 
shall  not  shame,  for  I  was  in  his  troupe  until,  happening 
to  win  the  fancy  of  the  keeper  of  this  inn,  I  abandoned 
the  only  life  worth  living  to  grow  fat  in  a  humdrum  call 
ing.  Comedy,  forsooth,  I  love  it,  and  if  you  can  play 
it,  you  may  sup.  But  mark  you,  if  you  play  me  not 
well,  my  servants  shall  trounce  you ! " 

A  rabbit  pie  regaled  these  hungry  actors;  a  flagon  of 
claret  dispelled  their  gloom — the  beating,  however,  re 
mained  in  abeyance.  Soon  the  tap-room  filled  with  cup- 
loving  burghers.  Above  the  din  of  laughter  and  beakers 
clattering  arose  the  raucous  voice  of  La  Filoutiere  swear 
ing  that,  if  these  vagabonds  made  not  good  with  their 
play,  he'd  have  them  all  in  gaol ! 

"  '  Their  play ! '  "  Moliere  sighed.  "  A  mere  frame 
work  of  mine  own  contriving;  yet  it  must  make  these 
toping  citizens  laugh,  else  the  staves  of  the  domestics 
and  La  Filoutiere's  gaol !  " 

Bejart  secured  a  piece  of  charcoal  to  blacken  his  lip; 
Madeleine,  a  shining  porringer,  to  serve  as  a  mirror 
for  the  blushes  she  would  paint.  The  meanwhile,  Mo 
liere  pondered  tremulously  the  three  roles  he  was  to 
enact.  He  had  seen  Guillot-Gorju  play  the  comic  doc 
tor,  Gros  Guillaume  the  testy  bourgeois.  For  the  lover's 
part,  he  needed  only  the  inspiration  of  Madeleine's 
glance.  Still,  thirty-odd  burghers  sat  in  judgement  upon 
him,  and  needing  the  reassurance  of  his  own  voice,  he 
protested  that  he  had  no  costume  for  the  lover's  role. 
The  generous  landlady  gave  him  the  clothes  of  the  young 
gentleman  from  Paris.  These  being  of  the  latest  fash- 


FAME'S    PATHWAY 

ion,  would  prove  a  feature  of  the  entertainment,  Moliere 
vowed.     So  far,  so  good;  a  stage  was  needed. 

"  Remove  this  table  and  these  chairs,"  he  called  to 
some  varlets  crowding  the  kitchen  door.  "  Please,  you 
gentlemen  in  front,  not  quite  so  close.  Good!  We  are 
ready,  now." 

By  the  glow  of  the  candles  he  saw  the  faces  he  must 
animate;  a  raw  lad  without  experience  in  the  art  of 
making  honest  people  laugh.  His  hands  grew  cold  to 
their  finger  tips;  yet  pride  sustained  him,  though  the 
room  swam  before  him. 

"  Our  play  is  called  '  The  Jealousy  of  Smutty  Face/  " 
he  said.  "In  it  you  will  learn  that  he  who  weds  a  co 
quette  must  rue  it.  The  scene  is  a  street.  This  door  to 
the  kitchen  represents  the  entrance  to  a  house.  The  one 
to  yonder  yard  leads  to  a  public  square.  Now,  mes 
sieurs,  I  ask  your  kind  attention  to  our  comedy." 

His  voice  rang  steady,  and  when  he  withdrew,  Made 
leine  kissed  him  tenderly,  her  praise  for  his  harangue 
giving  him  self-confidence — the  thing  he  most  needed. 
Her  brother  was  taking  the  stage.  She  was  mortally 
tired,  yet  she  knew  there  must  be  no  lagging  in  this 
comedy  of  theirs.  With  ears  strained  for  the  effect,  she 
listened. 

"I  m-m-must  avow,"  Be j art  began  to  stutter,  "that 
I  am  the  m-m-most  unhappy  of  m-m-men.  Instead  of 
c-c-comforting  me  and  doing  as  I  wish,  my  w-w-wife 
delivers  me  to  the  devil  at  least  t-t-twenty  times  a  day." 

His  charcoaled  face  was  comic,  his  stammering  droll, 
yet  not  a  burgher  laughed. 

"  Still  she  m-m-must  be  p-p-punished,"  he  continued, 
struggling  to  dispel  the  gloom.  "  Suppose  I  should 
k-k-kill  her  ?  A  worthless  idea,  since  I  should  be  hanged. 


HONEST    LAUGHTER  123 

If  I  put  her  in  gaol,  the  v-vixen  would  get  out  with 
her  m-m-master-key.  What  the  d-d-devil  shall  I 
do?  Ah,  here  comes  a  learned  doctor;  I  will  ask  his 
advice." 

This  was  Moliere's  cue,  and  his  heart  beat  a  wild  tattoo 
of  fear.  Madeleine  tiptoed  aside.  As  he  passed  her, 
she  pressed  his  hand  and  smiled  encouragement.  A  doc 
tor's  hat  was  perched  upon  his  curls ;  horn-bowed  spec 
tacles  adorned  his  nose.  His  stride,  his  pompous  air, 
had  the  audience  laughing  in  a  trice. 

"  What,  you  ill-tutored  blockhead !  "  he  cried,  with  a 
withering  glance.  "  How  dare  you  address  me  without 
removing  your  hat?  Without  observing  rationem  loci, 
temporis  et  persons?  " 

Bej  art's  legs  trembled  like  aspens,  while  the  young 
actor  extemporised,  each  inflection,  each  gesture,  por 
traying  an  outraged  pedant  to  the  life.  Madeleine  saw 
with  delight  that  Moliere  was  making  an  audience  laugh 
with  his  pantomime  and  gesture,  with  the  very  volubility 
with  which  he  spoke.  Indeed,  so  true  to  life  was  his 
characterisation  that  she  caught  herself  wondering 
whether  he  were  not  actually  a  pedant  from  the  Latin 
quarter.  His  wit  was  ready,  too,  for  when  his  opponent 
averred  that  he  was  a  gallant  man,  he  asked  if  he  knew 
whence  came  that  expression. 

"  Whether  it  c-c-comes  from  St.  Germain  or  P-p- 
poissy,  matters  little  to  me,"  answered  Bej  art. 

Moliere's  retort  was  apt.  "  Learn  that  the  expression 
'  gallant  man  '  is  derived  from  '  elegant '  by  taking  the 
'  g '  and  the  '  a.'  That  makes  '  ga.'  By  doubling  the 
'  1 '  and  j  oining  an  '  a '  to  the  last  letters,  we  have  '  gal 
lant  '  !  The  addition  of  '  man '  makes  it '  gallant  man  '  ! 
But  once  more,  for  whom  do  you  take  me  ?  " 


124  FAME'S    PATHWAY 

"  For  a  d-d-doctor,"  stuttered  the  other. 

"  Learn  that  I  am  not  only  one  doctor,  but  one,  two, 
three,  four,  five,  six,  seven,  eight,  nine,  and  ten  times  a 
doctor ;  " — a  repartee  followed  by  ten  reasons  for  his 
doctorship,  each  the  source  of  loud  guffaws. 

Bej  art  the  veteran,  played  like  a  tyro.  At  every  sally, 
his  young  rival  had  him  at  his  wits'  end.  When  he  of 
fered  to  pay  for  the  mock  doctor's  advice,  he  was  over 
whelmed  with  this  diatribe : 

"  Do  you  take  me  for  a  man  who  thinks  money  omnip 
otent?  A  man  pledged  to  profit?  A  sordid  soul? 
Learn,  my  friend,  that  should  you  offer  me  a  purse 
filled  with  pistoles,  and  place  this  purse  in  a  costly  box, 
this  box  in  a  precious  case,  this  case  in  a  marvellous 
chest,  this  chest  in  a  wonderful  cabinet,  this  cabinet  in  a 
magnificent  room,  this  room  in  a  luxurious  suite,  this 
suite  in  a  stately  castle,  this  castle  in  a  peerless  citadel, 
this  citadel  in  a  famous  city,  this  city  on  a  fertile 
isle,  this  isle  in  an  opulent  province,  this  province  in  a 
flourishing  monarchy,  and  this  monarchy  in  the  entire 
world,  and  then  offer  me  the  entire  world  with  this 
flourishing  monarchy,  opulent  province,  fertile  isle, 
famous  city,  peerless  citadel,  stately  castle,  luxurious 
suite,  magnificent  room,  wonderful  cabinet,  marvellous 
chest,  precious  case,  and  costly  box  containing  your  purse 
filled  with  pistoles,  I  should  care  as  little  about  you  and 
your  money,  as  that !  " 

Snapping  his  fingers  contemptuously,  Moliere  made  a 
haughty  exit,  with  his  academic  robes  tucked  imperiously 
behind  him.  Honest  laughter  echoed  through  the  tap 
and  his  heart  leaped  with  delight.  He  had  swayed  an 
audience,  tasted  the  sweets  of  triumph!  Unbounded 
seemed  his  joy  until  he  reappeared  to  play  the  lover.  His 


HONEST    LAUGHTER  125 

acting  lacked  spontaneity  then;  the  audience  was  un 
responsive. 

"  He  is  shapely  enough  for  the  part,"  thought  Made 
leine,  "  his  bearing  sufficiently  noble ;  but  his  nose  is  too 
prominent,  his  lip  too  thick,  and  when  he  tries  to  speak 
tenderly,  his  voice  is  harsh  and  monotonous." 

Alas,  in  the  midst  of  a  love  passage,  he  hiccoughed, 
the  audience  bursting  into  unseemly  laughter.  But  for 
an  untoward  incident,  the  cudgels  of  the  servants  would 
have  fallen  on  his  back.  Luckily,  the  young  Parisian, 
whose  clothes  he  wore,  burst  into  the  room  in  a  tower 
ing  rage,  just  as  the  landlady  began  to  fidget  in  her 
seat. 

Attired  in  white  under-breeches  and  shirt,  the  new 
comer  was  mistaken  for  a  pierrot  having  part  in  the 
comedy,  till  he  began  to  belabour  a  servant  with  a  ten 
nis  racquet. 

"  Soul  of  a  dog,"  he  cried,  "  what  hast  thou  done  with 
my  garments  ?  " 

Shrieking  with  pain,  the  fellow  pointed  to  Moliere, 
kneeling  at  Madeleine's  feet. 

"  By  the  beard  of  a  hangman,  they  clothe  yon  buf 
foon  !  "  exclaimed  the  hotspur,  his  racquet  descending 
upon  the  back  of  the  nearest  spectator. 

"  Learn,  thou  sot,  that  I  am  the  Sieur  de  .  .  ." 
cried  this  new  victim.  Before  he  could  pronounce  the 
euphonious  name  of  La  Filoutiere,  his  spurred  heels 
slipped  under  him.  In  falling,  the  worthy  provost  up 
set  a  table  laden  with  beakers.  Her  best  glassware 
broken,  the  landlady  rent  the  air  with  piteous  cries,  while 
the  young  man  in  the  underclothing  hewed  a  path  with 
his  appalling  racquet.  Madeleine  and  Bejart  fled  in 
terror  to  the  kitchen,  but  Moliere  held  his  ground  val- 


126  FAME'S   PATHWAY 

iantly.  He  had  taken  full  count  of  the  fray,  and  seizing 
a  chair,  prepared  to  crush  his  assailant. 

"  Have  off  my  garments/'  said  the  cause  of  the  tu 
mult,  "  or  by  Heaven  .  .  ." 

The  uplifted  racquet  did  not  descend,  nor  did  the  chair 
either,  for  the  aggressor's  eyes  had  met  his  opponent's 
firm  pair. 

"  Jean-Baptiste ! "  exclaimed  the  one. 

"  Claude  Chapelle !  "  cried  the  other. 

The  friends  thus  strangely  met  embraced  each  other; 
but  their  j  oy  was  short-lived.  La  Filoutiere  and  the  out 
raged  citizens  of  Poissy  were  advancing  upon  the  enemy, 
the  provost  with  his  rapier  drawn,  his  followers  brandish 
ing  their  canes.  The  lot  of  Chapelle  might  have  been, 
indeed,  disastrous,  had  not  Moliere  stood  to  his  defence. 

"  Friends,"  he  shouted,  his  voice  at  its  highest  pitch, 
"  this  young  gentleman  was  set  upon  in  this  very  room 
by  three  bloodthirsty  knaves,  then  robbed  of  his  clothes. 
He  deserves  pity,  not  violence.  Moreover,  he  is  the  son 
of  a  magistrate  of  Paris,  entitled  to  the  law's  protec 
tion!" 

Though  he  might  badger  a  troupe  of  strolling  players, 
La  Filoutiere  had  an  underling's  respect  for  rank.  Those 
words,  "  a  magistrate  of  Paris,"  turned  his  anger  to 
wholesome  awe. 

Seeing  the  provost  cringing,  Chapelle  stepped  into  the 
breach.  "  Landlady,"  he  shouted,  "  an  octave  of  your 
best  Burgundy!  Let  all  drink  the  health  of  my  actor 
friend!" 

In  the  prospect  of  liberal  cheer,  the  anger  of  the 
crowd  was  stayed,  the  riot  turned  to  merriment.  Amid 
boisterous  applause,  the  comedy  came  to  a  happy  con 
clusion  in  the  discomfiture  of  jealous  Smutty  Face — 


HONEST   LAUGHTER  127 

Chapelle's  Burgundy  making  even  the  landlady  com 
plaisant  to  Moliere's  shortcomings  in  the  role  of  lover. 

When  weary  Madeleine  went  to  her  attic  room,  her 
steps  were  dogged  by  village  rakes,  whose  fawning  she 
could  only  stop  by  a  sound  box  bestowed  on  the  ear  of  the 
most  ribald  and  the  slamming  of  her  door  upon  his  be 
sotted  comrades.  In  the  tap-room  below,  Chapelle  and 
Moliere  touched  glasses,  the  wine  and  the  joy  of  this 
chance  meeting  allaying  the  young  actor's  fatigue  for 
the  moment.  His  friend's  nap,  too,  and  subsequent  fray 
had  sobered  him  somewhat,  so  the  pair  exchanged  tales 
of  their  day's  adventures. 

A  clandestine  visit  to  a  fair  chatelaine  of  the  neigh 
bourhood  was  the  cause  of  Chapelle's  presence  at  Poissy 
— a  visit  ruthlessly  cut  short  by  the  return  of  the  lord  of 
the  manor.  The  first  weapon  to  hand  being  the  racquet 
which  had  played  so  lively  a  part  in  the  evening's  rout, 
he  had  felled  the  irate  spouse  ere  the  latter  could  draw, 
and  made  good  his  escape  through  a  window.  Pursued 
as  far  as  Poissy,  he  had  taken  refuge  in  this  inn  to  await 
an  opportunity  of  avenging  himself  upon  this  ill-bred 
husband  in  a  manner  becoming  a  gentleman. 

At  this  narration,  Moliere  laughed  heartily.  "  But 
tell  me,"  he  said,  "how  came  you  embroiled  with  three 
swashbucklers  ?  " 

"  Lansquenet  is  a  game  of  great  finesse.  My  skill 
irritated  those  rogues.  Being  one  to  three,  I  was  at  a 
disadvantage." 

"  At  no  more  disadvantage  than  I  and  my  troupe  when 
we  were  robbed  by  those  self-same  rascals." 

Filling  his  glass  to  drink  death  to  them,  Moliere  told 
his  friend  the  story  of  his  own  spoliation  and  subsequent 
gloom. 


128  FAME'S   PATHWAY 

"  Since  my  skill  at  lansquenet  was  the  cause  of  your 
being  pillaged,  by  all  the  ethics  of  Plato,  this  ill-gotten 
gain  belongs  to  you !  "  cried  Chapelle,.  drawing  a  well- 
filled  purse  from  the  bosom  of  his  shirt  and  emptying 
the  contents  on  the  table. 

Moliere  played  longingly  with  the  shimmering  gold 
pieces,  letting  them  trickle  slowly  through  his  fingers. 
"  No,  my  friend,  I  cannot  take  your  money,"  he  said  at 
last;  "  no,  not  even  as  a  loan." 

"  Pardi,  you  shall,"  cried  the  rake,  with  thick-tongued 
ardour,  "  or,  by  the  greed  of  Mazarin,  I  '11  thrash  you !  " 
And  saying  this,  he  staggered  toward  a  band  of  free 
drinkers  to  toast  them  and  lead  them  in  song,  until  he 
fell  stupefied  beneath  a  table. 

Wearily  Moliere  picked  up  the  pistoles.  When  the 
last  one  jingled  among  its  fellows,  he  placed  the  purse 
containing  them  in  his  pocket,  resolved  that  on  the  mor 
row  they  should  be  returned  to  their  owner.  He  could 
not  find  it  in  his  heart  to  despoil  a  tipsy  friend — nay, 
even  though  his  wretchedness  condoned  it. 

But  he  was  too  overwrought  and  tired  to  argue  even 
with  himself.  His  brain  swam  with  fatigue;  the  tap 
room,  reeking  with  the  dregs  of  wine,  danced  before  his 
hollow  eyes ;  the  burghers,  drinking  at  the  tables,  became 
red-faced  goblins,  whose  laughter  taunted  him — the 
vagabond,  the  outcast.  Yet  even  they  faded  into  a  dark 
ness  too  deep  for  his  weary  glance  to  penetrate.  His 
head  fell  forward  on  the  table  and  lay  there,  until  the 
hostess  of  the  tavern  led  him,  drunken  with  sleep,  in 
pity  to  a  bed. 


CHAPTER    IV 

TRINETTE    DRAWS   A    WEAPON 

KNOWING  the  stress  Moliere  had  undergone,  gentle  Made 
leine  implored  the  servants  of  the  inn  to  leave  with  na 
ture  the  task  of  rousing  him.  When  he  awoke,  the  sun 
had  neared  the  meridian.  For  a  time  he  lay  quite  still, 
feeling  life  a  joyous  thing,  until  the  sight  of  the  cock 
loft  where  he  had  slept  recalled  the  wretched  events  that 
had  brought  him  there. 

In  truth,  he  had  beguiled  eleven  hapless  beings  from 
the  Paris  of  their  birth ;  and  they  had  been  set  upon  and 
robbed.  These  facts  were  clear  enough;  likewise,  the 
certainty  that  he  must  find  a  means  to  end  their  plight. 
Moreover,  there  was  the  matter  of  the  pistoles.  To 
plunder  a  tipsy  friend  was  to  class  himself  with  the  cut- 
purses  who  plied  their  trade  before  his  father's  shop! 
Indeed,  his  duty  was  clear  enough!  Presently  he  arose 
and  dressed  himself — going  straightway  to  the  tap-room 
in  quest  of  Chapelle. 

To  his  amazement,  the  lad  had  gone.  With  ill-con 
cealed  delight,  the  hostess  told  him  of  the  sword-play 
in  a  neighbouring  wood  and  of  Chapelle's  flight  to  avert 
the  vengeance  of  the  laws  against  duelling,  for  he  had 
taught  his  inconsiderate  enemy  that  boors  with  pretty 
wives  should  either  be  complaisant  or  learn  to  fence. 

Although  the  pistoles  could  not  be  returned,  yet  Mo 
liere  vowed  he  would  not  touch  his  friend's  money. 
Madeleine,  to  whom  he  told  the  tale,  argued  vainly  that 

129 


130  FAME'S   PATHWAY 

Chapelle's  flight  was  a  godsend.  As  for  Bejart,  his 
logic  was  worthy  a  casuist. 

"  The  lad  is  a  rake,"  he  said;  "  therefore  in  diverting 
his  money  from  its  natural  bent,  we  uphold  a  n-n-noble 
art  at  the  cost  of  vice,  for,  if  these  p-p-pistoles  were  still 
his,  some  tap-house  would  possess  them  ere  night 
fall." 

Still  Moliere  remained  obdurate,  until,  having  told  the 
landlady  that  he  was  without  means  to  pay  her  score, 
that  cordial  dame  shed  new  light  upon  the  matter. 

"  My  score  was  paid  by  your  comedy,"  said  she. 

"  But  the  octave  of  Burgundy  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  Your  boisterous  friend  paid  for  that." 

"  But  how,  since  I  have  his  purse  ?  " 

"  The  purse  you  have  he  won  from  the  knaves  who 
robbed  you.  His  own  I  had  taken  from  the  pocket  of 
the  small-clothes  in  which  you  played  the  lover's  role  so 
badly." 

"  Badly !  "  he  exclaimed  with  petulance. 

"  Yes,  badly !  But  I  swear  by  my  hope  of  salvation 
that  your  pedant  would  put  Guillot-Gorju  to  shame! 
Comic  roles  are  your  forte,  young  man." 

Moliere  was  for  expostulating,  till  Madeleine,  who 
knew  the  hostess  spoke  truly,  silenced  him. 

"  Tush,  lad !  your  part  is  not  to  bandy  words.  We 
have  need  of  a  smith  and  a  wheelwright." 

"  Ay,  and  a  hamper  of  v-v-viands,"  babbled  the  stut 
terer. 

"  For  which  we  pay,"  said  Moliere  stiffly,  the  land 
lady's  aspersions  upon  his  acting  making  him  accept 
Chapelle's  windfall ;  but  only  as  a  debt,  mind  you,  which 
he  meant  to  discharge.  Long  ere  his  wounded  pride  was 
soothed,  a  wheelwright  was  forthcoming;  likewise,  a  vil 
lage  smith  and  a  peasant's  cart,  in  which  they,  the  vict- 


TRINETTE    DRAWS   A   WEAPON     131 

uals,  Bejart,  and  himself  were  trundled  upon  their 
way. 

Madeleine  rode  her  palfrey.  When  the  wreck  of  the 
chariot  was  reached,  she  left  the  handicraftsmen  to  im 
provise  a  stithy,  her  brother  and  Moliere  to  direct  their 
toil.  Hastening  through  the  forest,  she  found  her  male 
companions  huddled  forlornly  about  a  blaze  of  fagots. 
When  she  told  them  of  the  happy  issue  of  the  farce  so 
deftly  played  before  the  citizens  of  Poissy,  they  grum 
bled  ;  not  at  the  good  fortune  it  had  brought,  but  because 
they  had  played  no  part  therein.  A  recital  of  Moliere's 
shortcomings  as  the  lover  might  readily  have  stilled  their 
envy,  but  being  a  loyal  girl,  she  extolled  his  triumphs 
in  the  role  of  pedant  till  their  chagrin  was  manifest. 

They  were  indeed  an  angry  lot,  for  it  appears  that, 
while  their  fair  comrades  slept  snugly  in  the  forester's 
lodge,  they  had  been  relegated  to  the  dank  ground  of 
the  forest.  Had  they  been  of  sterner  stuff,  their  hoary 
host  would  have  been  paid  for  his  invidious  hospitality 
with  cudgels.  As  it  was,  they  departed  in  silence,  while 
dashing  Trinette  and  comely  Madelon  Malingre  kissed 
the  forester  for  his  cheer. 

Followed  by  two  pretty  girls  a-horseback  and  three 
more  afoot,  these  testy  actors  and  their  hired  fiddlers 
went  on  into  the  wood.  Finding  the  oxen  already  in  the 
yoke  and  the  baggage  installed  by  Moliere  and  Bejart, 
they  journeyed  on  more  blithely,  to  the  moaning  of  the 
wood-doves,  to  the  thundering-down  of  water  through 
the  dells.  The  sun  came  into  the  forest  and  made  it  a 
place  so  fragrant  that,  when  they  had  halted  for  a 
breathing  spell,  Moliere  was  constrained  to  cry  out  that 
he  preferred  these  sweet-scented  woods  to  Paris  and  her 
smells. 

"  Morbleu !  "  grumbled  Beys,  "  when  I  think  of  the 


132  FAME'S   PATHWAY 

shop  of  Ragueneau,  the  pastry  cook,  my  nostrils  curse  me 
for  a  fool." 

"  Then  think  of  the  Bastille  and  its  stenches,"  cried 
the  exultant  youth. 

"  A  better  dwelling-place  than  this  damp  forest !  " 
grunted  Beys  in  retort. 

Suavely  Trinette  Desurlis  lowered  her  voice  and  whis 
pered  to  Moliere.  "  Think  of  the  perfumes  of  Paris, 
think  of  the  redolent  nobles.  Ah,  if  I  were  a  man,  no 
gentleman-in-waiting  should  look  on  me  with  scorn !  " 

A  flush  of  anger  tinged  his  cheek.  "  A  woman's  wea 
pon  is  her  tongue,"  he  sneered. 

Her  dark  eyes  flashing  a  challenge,  she  seized  the 
rapier  hanging  from  his  baldrick  and  drew  it  from  its 
sheath.  Her  free  arm  curled  upward.  "  On  guard !  " 
she  laughed.  "  Parry  this  thrust,  and  then  insult  a 
woman."  The  naked  sword  sped  towards  his  breast. 
"Booby!"  she  jeered,  as  he  recoiled  in  trepidation. 
"  I  '11  not  kill  you ;  I  '11  but  teach  you  how  to  kill  an 
other."  The  point  of  her  rapier  rose ;  the  hilt  was  deftly 
lowered,  her  tiny  foot  stamping  defiance.  "  Learn,  Mas 
ter  Goose,  this  thrust  in  prime;  this  tierce  in  seconde; 
this  quarte  in  seconde,  this  tierce;  this  quarte!  " 

With  each  of  these  imaginary  thrusts,  her  left  arm 
dropped  lightly  to  her  hip,  her  slender  body  turning  till 
the  lunging  foot  was  in  a  line  with  knee  and  shoulder, 
and  her  sword-arm  at  its  utmost  length — the  manner  of 
attack  then  taught  by  masters  of  the  blade.  Moliere's 
anger  became  unwilling  admiration,  for  in  this  lithe 
fencer  he  saw  a  beauty  and  grace  of  a  vexing  kind. 

"  With  these  attacks  and  their  parries,"  she  continued, 
"  you  need  know  but  a  feint  or  two  to  be  a  match  for  any 
perfumed  noble  in  the  realm." 


TRINETTE    DRAWS   A   WEAPON     133 

Saying  this,  she  sheathed  his  sword,  whispering  so 
that  only  he  might  hear:  "Don't  be  a  fool;  the  day 
of  dupes  is  past !  " 

He  paled  but  did  not  answer. 

To  Madeleine,  this  nimble  display  had  been  but  the 
trick  of  a  shameless  quean,  and  when  the  applause  which 
greeted  it  subsided,  her  indignation  so  far  mastered  her 
that  she  exclaimed  with  a  petulance  uncommon  to  her 
nature:  "  Of  a  truth,  the  fondling  of  some  sword 
player ! " 

Now  Trinette  well  knew  how  vulnerable  is  jealousy 
and  secretly  rejoiced.  "  Bad  temper  ill  becomes  a  cast- 
off  baggage ! "  she  sneered,  her  words  moving  Moliere 
to  shame — that  being  her  intent.  Fearing  a  shrewish 
brawl,  he  implored  her  to  silence. 

"I  quarrel,  when  you  wish  it  not?"  she  murmured 
with  her  tenderest  smile.  "  Indeed,  I  am  not  a  fish 
wife."  Her  glance  said  plainly,  "Choose,  Moliere:  the 
vixen  or  the  amourette." 

To  his  fair  mind,  Madeleine's  attack  appeared  unwar 
ranted,  the  rebuke  well  merited.  "  Trinette  has  done 
you  no  harm,"  he  said  to  her  in  a  voice  quite  determined. 
"  It  is  meet  that  you  ask  her  pardon." 

In  that  slender  creature  with  a  cunning  deeper  than 
her  raven  eyes — and  blacker,  too — Madeleine  saw  a  mor 
tal  enemy;  but,  being  the  offender,  she  knew  that  in 
Moliere's  sight  she  appeared  unlovely.  To  acquiesce  in 
his  demand  was  clearly  wise,  and  she  did  so  with  a  show 
of  far  more  equanimity  than  her  heart  contained.  "  Com 
rades,"  she  said  to  the  onlookers,  "jealousy  of  Tri- 
nette's  skill  has  made  me  use  unseemly  words.  I  crave 
her  pardon." 

"  Well  spoken !  "  cried  Beys. 


134j  FAME'S   PATHWAY 

"  A  fair-minded  girl ! "  chimed  Nicolas  Bonnenf ant. 

Seeing  the  sympathy  turning  to  her  enemy,  Trinette 
exclaimed  with  her  merriest  laugh:  "One  shoe  of  the 
quarrel  is  on  my  foot !  " 

"  Then  let  the  warring  maids  embrace !  "  said  George 
Pinel. 

It  is  one  thing  to  kindle  angry  fires  in  a  woman's 
heart,  another  to  have  them  out.  They  embraced,  it  is 
true,  yet  the  loathing  in  the  breast  of  each  was  apparent 
in  the  spite  that  flashed  from  eye  to  eye.  Madeleine's 
sister,  thinking  to  dispel  the  war  clouds,  said  pleasantly : 
"  In  truth,  Trinette's  grace  and  skill  should  make  us  all 
envious." 

But  these  adroit  words  were  marred  by  Madelon  Ma- 
lingre,  who  had  no  liking  for  Trinette.  "  Grace ! "  she 
said,  "  you  should  see  Marotte  Beaupre  in  a  bout.  The 
poesy  of  grace  is  she." 

This  praise  for  the  leading  lady  of  the  Marais  Theatre 
aroused  a  new  tempest  in  the  breast  of  the  fencer.  "  Ma 
rotte  Beaupre !  "  she  scoffed,  her  dark  eyes  flashing  with 
contempt.  "  A  cow,  forsooth !  " 

La  Malingre  hurled  back  defiance.  "A  cow,  indeed! 
Peste !  Then  thou  art  a  camel !  " 

To  this  insult  so  Gallic,  Trinette  responded  in  the 
manner  of  the  animal  she  really  resembled,  for,  with 
panther-like  swiftness,  she  sprang  upon  her  adversary. 
But  Madelon  Malingre  would  not  accept  a  trouncing 
from  any  lass.  For  a  trice,  she  gave  back  slaps  as  hard 
as  any  she  took.  Brazen  words  flew  about;  blows  rained 
blindly;  hair  was  dishevelled,  dresses  torn! 

Luckily,  Bejart  was  slaking  his  thirst.  Seeing  these 
fair  comrades  disporting  themselves  like  viragoes,  he  cut 
the  Gordian  knot  of  their  affray.  To  drench  the  pair 


A   scalded  cat  fears  cold  water ' ' 


TRINETTE    DRAWS   A   WEAPON     135 

with  the  contents  of  his  bucket  appeared  to  him  a  Chris 
tian  duty;  to  accompany  the  sousing  with  apt  words, 
mere  charity;  so,  while  he  soaked  the  jades  soundly,  he 
stammered  forth  this  mollifying  proverb :  "  A  scalded 
cat  fears  cold  water !  " 

Hailed  with  j  eers,  the  dripping  damsels  emerged  shiv 
ering  from  their  bath  to  revile  the  stutterer  with  the  name 
of  nearly  every  guest  of  Noah,  till,  shamed  by  ridicule, 
they  slunk  away  to  nurse  their  rage. 

Seeing  cruel  drops  dripping  from  the  tip  of  Trinette's 
pretty  chin,  Moliere  resolved  to  comfort  her.  She  had 
been  twice  affronted  without  warrant,  he  argued — an  in 
justice,  most  assuredly;  so  gallantly  he  threw  his  cloak 
about  her  bedraggled  dress.  "  Of  a  truth,  it  was  un 
kind,"  he  said,  "  this  pitiless  baiting  of  you." 

She  looked  up  strangely  and  spoke  in  a  thrilled  voice : 
"  Ah,  if  you  have  pity,  't  is  all  I  ask." 

Beneath  her  dripping  hair,  he  saw  her  face  flushed, 
beautiful,  ardent;  but  in  the  shadow  beyond  he  saw  an 
other  face,  pale  and  beseeching.  "  I  do  sympathise," 
he  whispered  almost  fervently,  for,  without  warning,  the 
witchery  of  this  girl's  glance  held  him  fascinated.  But 
seeing  in  the  frank  blue  eyes  beyond  a  look  that  shamed 
him,  he  added  with  some  coolness,  "  Surely,  one  so  able 
in  defence  hath  scant  need  of  sympathy." 

Long  and  fervidly  she  gazed  at  him.  "  Ah,  Moliere," 
she  said  at  last,  "  true  sympathy  springs  only  from  true 
love;  all  else  is  but  prattle." 

"  Prattle ! "  he  said,  evading  the  challenge  of  her 
eyes.  "  Since  you  will  not  have  compassion,  pray  accept 
admiration  for  your  sword-play." 

She  answered  him  shamelessly.  "  I  have  some  skill 
at  fence  because,  once,  I  loved  a  fencer — a  master 


136  FAME'S   PATHWAY 

swordsman,  I  might  say  truly.  Your  Madeleine's  wit 
divined  as  much." 

There  was  no  heart's  cry  of  injured  womanhood  in 
her  words;  no  appeal  for  pity;  no  entreaty;  but  merely 
a  bold  admission  to  one  without  the  right  to  ask  it.  Seek 
ing  to  fathom  this  brazenness,  he  laughed: 

"  Indeed  a  master,  since  he  taught  you  to  love  as  well 
as  to  fence !  " 

"  Sacristie,"  said  she,  "  he  only  taught  me  the  way  to 
love."  Pausing,  she  looked  at  him  through  lowered  lids, 
her  eyes  shining  softly  beneath  them.  "  He  was  the 
first,  Moliere.  There  must  ever  be  a  first,  as  you  know 
full  well." 

"  True  love  is  not  built  upon  a  ruin,"  he  said  ve 
hemently. 

"  On  the  contrary,"  she  laughed,  with  a  meaning  he 
did  not  fail  to  grasp,  "  it  should  arise  like  a  phoenix  from 
the  ashes  of  a  hateful  flame ! " 

"  A  fit  bird  to  symbol  love,"  he  answered  coldly,  for 
this  time  she  had  overshot  her  mark ;  "  a  fit  bird,  indeed, 
since  when  it  nests,  it  burns  itself  that  it  may  come  forth 
ready  to  be  burned  again.  But  why  not  a  parrot,  to 
prate  of  love's  triumphs,  or  a  hen,  to  cackle  loudly  its 
results?" 

The  oxen  had  long  since  caught  their  breath ;  and  the 
actors,  theirs  too,  for  that  matter. 

"  F-f-f orward  march !  "  cried  Bej  art,  marshalling  the 
band;  and,  in  a  tone  of  raillery,  he  added  for  the  benefit 
of  his  young  comrade  and  the  girl  beside  him,  "  F-f -for 
ward,  ye  triflers !  " 

Heedless  of  the  stutterer's  slur,  Trinette's  eyes  showed 
an  eagerness  to  repay  Moliere's  scorn  of  her.  "  No 
cackling  hen  nor  prating  parrot  am  I,"  she  said  with 


TRINETTE    DRAWS   A   WEAPON     137 

wilful  insolence  as  she  stepped  forth,  "  but  a  vampire 
to  suck  thy  blood." 

He  winced  at  these  words  till  the  prick  of  them  van 
ished  in  wonder  at  one  so  fair,  so  turbulent,  so  mystical. 
They  went  their  separate  ways:  he,  to  make  some  meas 
ure  of  peace  with  Madeleine ;  she,  to  watch  him  furtively, 
for  she  had  set  her  wanton's  heart  upon  him. 


CHAPTER    V 

A    NEW    DOMAIN 

IN  the  prime  of  the  afternoon,  Moliere,  followed  by  his 
shabby  company,  re-entered  the  market-place  of  Poissy. 
Bells  sounding  the  hour  of  Nones  made  the  air 
mellow  with  their  tolling;  and  at  the  Golden  Sun,  a  jolly 
hostess  gave  greeting.  Even  the  dogs  wagged  their 
scraggy  tails,  for  so  widespread  had  the  fame  of  this 
young  stroller's  farce  become  that  all  Poissy  bade  him 
welcome.  True,  La  Filoutiere  tilted  his  rapier  pom 
pously,  but  he  uttered  rro  protest.  When  the  idlers  who 
sat  dicing  before  the  tavern  hailed  Madeleine  and  her 
pretty  comrades  with  loose  flattery,  he  even  smiled  affably 
beneath  his  terrible  moustache. 

But  the  sojourn  in  friendly  Poissy  was  barely  long 
enough  for  the  smiths  to  complete  the  tinkering  begun 
in  the  forest.  Indeed,  time  pressed  ere  the  fair  at  Rouen 
should  open.  Triel,  where  the  actors  proposed  to  pass 
the  night,  was  well  nigh  two  leagues  away.  They 
quaffed,  however,  to  the  hostess  of  the  Golden  Sun,  Mo 
liere  expostulating  anew  that  serious  acting  was  his 
bent. 

"  Because  I  had  not  a  sou  in  my  pocket,"  said  he,  "  I 
played  a  farce  yestereve;  but  I  am  no  jack-pudding  by 
trade." 

She  answered  him  thus :  "  A  goat  must  browse  where 
he  is  tethered." 

Those  who  stood  listening  began  to  titter;  but  the  lad 
138 


A    NEW    DOMAIN  139 

was  too  thoroughly  in  earnest  to  be  silenced,  a  true  pas 
sion  burning  within  him. 

"  Acting  is  a  noble  art/'  he  persisted,  "  only  when  its 
intent  is  noble." 

"  Heaven  hath  given  thee  a  comic  mask/'  replied  his 
merry  opponent.  "  Play  tragedy,  and  thou'lt  stand  as 
still  as  a  crane  on  one  leg  praying  for  fame  to  hunt  thee 
out  with  cross  and  banner !  Be  the  turkey  of  farce,  my 
friend,  for  it  is  thy  natural  bent,  and  be  it  ere  the  field- 
larks  drop  roasted  into  thy  mouth." 

Vainglory,  the  adolescent  vice,  lashed  him  into  a  white 
fume.  "  A  turkey  of  farce !  "  he  cried  with  vehemence, 
"  to  strut  and  gobble  that  geese  may  laugh !  Nay,  I 
prefer  to  stand  my  life  out  on  one  leg — a  serious-minded 
crane ! " 

"  Calm  thyself,"  trilled  the  hostess.  "  Put  water  in 
thy  wine." 

"  Yes,  Moliere,  calm  yourself/'  said  Madeleine,  with 
a  restraining  hand  upon  his  shoulder. 

Ashamed  at  having  tilted  phrases  with  so  unfeeling 
a  foe,  the  lad  sought  an  honourable  exit  from  the  lists. 
"  Adieu,  madame,"  he  answered  good-naturedly,  "  I  see 
I  cannot  content  Everyman  and  his  father  too;  but  I  '11 
drink  the  sea  and  all  its  fishes  ere  I  am  false  to  my 
ideals." 

His  ambition  was  not  to  be  quelled  by  a  few  proverbs. 
Of  a  truth,  how  could  he,  a  bourgeois  of  Paris,  become 
a  buffoon,  he  asked  himself,  as  he  tramped  in  silence 
behind  the  ox-cart.  To  enact  tragedy,  or  even  tragi 
comedy,  many  a  young  man  as  well  born  as  he  had  gone 
upon  the  stage;  morover,  the  late  king  had  decreed  that 
the  profession  of  acting  was  disparaging  to  no  man.  Yet, 
a  farce  was  but  a  sop  to  a  rabble,  the  bait  of  the  charla- 


140  FAME'S    PATHWAY 

tan;  truly,  a  vast  gulf  lay  between  the  serious-minded 
actor  and  the  mime — a  gulf  too  wide  for  him  to  bridge. 

Meditating  thus,  he  reached  the  river  bank.  To  load 
the  oxen,  cart,  and  horses  in  a  ferry  was  a  work  of  much 
uproar;  so,  for  the  time  being,  his  reflections  were  dis 
turbed.  Soon  the  lubberly  craft  began  its  slow  voyage 
across  the  Seine.  Leaning  upon  the  bulwarks,  he  lis 
tened  to  the  lapping  of  the  waves,  to  the  creaking  of  the 
windlass.  His  father  might  disown  him,  he  mused  again, 
and  the  church  put  a  ban  upon  him;  yet  his  calling  was 
worthy  so  long  as  its  aims  were  worthy. 

But  Madeleine  was  meditating  too,  though  her 
thoughts  were  at  cross  purposes  with  his.  While  the 
sunlight  danced  upon  the  ripples,  and  the  cool  river  re 
freshed  her,  she  thought  of  the  idyllic  day  when  he  had 
poured  forth  his  heart  to  her.  They  were  of  one  mind 
then.  The  stage  had  been  a  temple  in  the  halcyon  days 
of  Greece !  She  was  to  be  the  high  priestess  in  a  mod 
ern  fane — he,  her  oracle! 

"  Ah,  what  a  dream  was  there !  "  she  sighed.  "  Yet 
Aristotle  was  right,  '  A  young  man  cannot  be  perfectly 
wise.'  " 

In  reality,  here  was  a  young  man  with  a  talent  for 
merriment  courting  Melpomene  in  vain.  The  hostess  of 
the  Golden  Sun  spoke  truly,  Heaven  had  given  him  a 
comic  mask. 

Long  stood  she  there  in  the  sunlight  with  her  arm 
on  the  railboard  of  the  barge,  gazing  into  the  wind 
swept  river,  trying  hard  to  reconcile  her  love  with  the 
dangers  besetting  it.  The  sweetness  of  her  life  had  be 
gun  to  be  bitter;  for  Trinette  Desurlis  stood  between 
her  and  happiness.  Already  there  were  whispers  among 
her  comrades ;  there  were  shrugs ;  there  were  titters.  Ah, 


A    NEW    DOMAIN  141 

how  distant  seemed  an  island  dense  with  beauty,  and  a 
day  when  she  had  languished  in  the  fragrant  air! 

When  the  little  company  disembarked  upon  the  north 
ern  bank,  the  afternoon  was  well  on  the  wane ;  yet  a  two- 
hours'  tramp  lay  before  them.  Bejart  unslung  his  arque- 
buse  and  glanced  ominously  ahead:  the  sun  cast  slanting 
shadows,  but  the  way  was  straight  and  clear  without  cave 
or  coppice  where  bandits  might  lurk. 

Moliere  began  merrily  to  hum  a  tune  of  his  tavern 
days.  As  he  trod  past  field  and  meadow  with  the  breath 
of  the  afternoon  upon  his  face,  nature  thrilled  him  with 
ecstasies  denied  those  who  dream  not.  It  was  all  very 
fair,  this  nomad's  life;  fair  to  tramp  on  a  straight  high 
way;  fair  to  listen  to  the  creaking  wheels;  fair  to  watch 
the  peasants  toiling  in  the  fields ;  fair  to  greet  each  hum 
ble  passer-by;  for  he  had  come  into  a  new  domain. 

Madeleine,  alas,  found  neither  rest  nor  comfort  there. 
To  her,  it  was  a  turbulent  domain.  The  gauntlet  had 
been  thrown  to  her,  and  in  that  rough-and-ready  age 
of  love  there  could  be  no  courteous  parleying  before 
swords  were  crossed.  Even  now,  as  the  west  wind  came 
sighing  its  way  through  the  lowlands,  and  Moliere's 
poet's  blood  began  to  quicken  with  exultant  thoughts, 
she  saw  Trinette  turn  her  sloe-black  eyes  shoulderward 
and  halt  the  gait  of  her  palfrey.  Being  afoot,  she  has 
tened  her  step  and  reached  her  lover's  side  ere  the  hussy 
could  waylay  him. 

"  Dear,"  she  said,  "  how  fair  the  day  is ;  as  fair,  al 
most,  as  when  we  built  our  temple  on  a  fragrant  isle! 
Look ;  yonder  soars  a  skylark !  " 

"  Yes,  Madeleine ;  and  a  hateful  city  lies  leagues 
away,  just  as  it  did  when  we  lay  among  the  flowers, 
planning  our  enterprise." 


142  FAME'S    PATHWAY 

"  Love's  witchery  was  in  the  air  that  day,"  she  sighed, 
looking  up  wistfully. 

"And  I  was  a  foolish  boy/'  he  said,  a  joyous  tremor 
running  through  him. 

"  Yes,  a  foolish  boy/'  she  repeated  gravely.  "  The 
world  will  never  pardon  you." 

"  Nor  priest  shrive  me,"  he  laughed. 

"  You  mean  that  to  run  counter  to  your  father's  will 
was  an  evil  act  ?  "  she  answered  with  a  slightly  height 
ened  colour,  for  she  detected  a  tone  of  irony  in  his 
voice. 

"  Were  there  no  evil  in  the  world,  there  could  be  no 
good  to  come  out  of  it,"  was  his  reply,  spoken  scorn 
fully. 

For  a  moment  she  gazed  thoughtfully  at  him ;  then  her 
blue  eyes  shone  with  a  sanguine  light.  "  Ah,  Moliere, 
good  shall  come  out  of  it !  No  one  with  your  courage 
can  fail  utterly." 

He  took  her  hand  and  kissed  it,  his  face  lighting  up 
with  a  look  of  eagerness.  "  Dear  Madeleine,  if  you  have 
faith,  I  can  fly  to  the  stars !  " 

"  Take  care  lest  you  fly  with  waxen  wings  too  near 
the  sun." 

His  brow  darkened.  "  You  mean,"  he  said  coldly, 
"  that  because  I  am  not  gifted  I  may  not  soar  ?  " 

"  No,  Moliere,  I  was  thinking  of  our  enterprise.  Ten 
hapless  beings,  dependent  on  you  and  me!  Chapelle's 
livres  will  not  last  long  should  luck  turn  against  us.  Is 
it  not  wise  to  make  our  way  gradually  in  a  sure  path? 
Ah,  my  friend,  it  is  so  easy  to  fall  from  a  pedestal !  " 

Her  lowered  voice  had  been  soft  and  sympathetic. 
"  And  the  sure  path  ?  "  he  queried,  his  resentment  fading 
for  the  moment. 


A    NEW    DOMAIN  143 

"  The  little  farce  with  which  you  made  the  burghers 
in  the  tap-room  laugh." 

His  glance  quickly  turned  into  a  look  of  pain.  "  You, 
too,  would  have  me  the  turkey  of  farce,"  he  said,  turning 
his  thoughtful  eyes  away  lest  her  glance  should  make 
him  waver,  for  his  ideals  were  at  war  with  his  desires. 
Indeed,  how  often  had  he  stood  upon  the  Pont  Neuf  and 
laughed!  How  often  had  Montfleury's  grandiose  man 
ner  failed  to  stir  him ! 

She  saw  him  hesitate.  "Your  pedant  was  a  living 
man,"  she  said.  "  Is  not  a  farce  such  as  we  played  in 
the  tap-room  a  truer  mirror  of  life  than  bombastic 
tragedy  ?  " 

"  Ah,  how  could  I  look  dear  old  Gassendi,  my  master, 
in  the  face,  were  I  to  descend  to  a  plane  so  low?"  he 
answered  in  a  tone  of  despair. 

Her  look  grew  eager;  her  eyes  shone  and  were  clear. 
"  Corneille  despises  not  comedy ;  else  he  would  not  have 
written  '  The  Liar.'  His  Dorante  is  a  human  part — 
a  role  for  an  actor  of  talent." 

"  Dorante !  "  he  shrugged,  "  a  mere  blunderhead — a 
shuffler,  whose  lies  are  too  transparent  to  deceive !  " 

She  was  not  to  be  veered  from  her  purpose.  "  He 
is  a  likeable  fellow  nevertheless.  Ah,  what  a  tribute 
to  the  master  to  play  '  The  Liar '  at  Rouen,  his  birth 
place,  where  it  has  never  been  seen,  since  it  is  as  yet 
unprinted !  Through  the  friendship  of  Marotte  Beaupre, 
I  obtained,  unknown  to  you,  the  permission  of  the  Marais 
players  to  enact  it  in  the  provinces,  and  I  have  the 
manuscript.  Is  that  not  a  triumph  indeed  ?  " 

"  Yes,  Madeleine,"  he  said ;  "  and  a  word  of  praise 
from  Corneille  would  be  worth  much  to  our  enterprise." 

She  was  tempted   to  smile  at  this  sudden  venality; 


144  FAME'S    PATHWAY 

she  had  deliberately  laid  a  snare  for  him,  and  gradually 
she  led  him  there.  "Yet,  how  may  we  cast  this 
comedy  ?  "  she  mused.  "  Beys  would  play  Geronte,  of 
course;  brother  Joseph,  Cliton;  but  Dorante,  the  part 
you  despise,  dare  we  trust  it  to  Clerin  ?  " 

Her  arched  brows  had  a  questioning  look.  He  was  not 
long  in  answering.  "  Nay,  Madeleine,  I  '11  play  the 
part,"  he  said,  a  tinge  of  jealousy  apparent  in  his 
voice. 

Thus  a  refractory  lad  was  led  in  the  way  of  his  apti 
tude.  Once  headed  thither,  he  became  quite  tractable. 
Moreover,  he  began  to  amplify  "  The  Jealousy  of 
Smutty  Face,"  so  as  to  make  of  it  an  abiding  sop  for  the 
rabble.  To  shorten  the  love  scene  he  had  played  so 
badly,  required  the  utmost  adroitness  on  Madeleine's 
part.  An  unlocked  for  incident,  however,  did  more  than 
her  strategy  or  tenderness  to  make  him  realise  her  worth 
and  another's  wantonness. 

In  the  purlieus  of  Triel,  the  little  company  passed  a 
turbid  duck-pond.  The  way  being  narrow,  the  side  of 
the  road  began  to  give  beneath  the  weight  of  the  ox 
cart.  Joseph  Bejart  dropped  his  weapon,  and  calling 
to  his  comrades  for  assistance,  bent  his  shoulder  to  the 
slipping  wheel.  Moliere,  being  with  Madeleine  in  the 
wake  of  the  caravan,  could  lend  no  aid,  but  Pinel  and 
Clerin  tugged  at  the  spokes  with  Bejart,  while  Bonnen- 
fant  goaded  the  oxen  and  Beys  chirped  lustily.  In  a 
trice  the  danger  was  over,  but  it  left  the  stutterer  pant 
ing  by  the  roadside. 

Following  upon  her  palfrey,  Trinette  saw  the  man 
who  had  drenched  her  mopping  his  brow  by  the  side  of 
a  muddy  water.  Revenge  was  sweet  to  her,  so,  with  a 
taunting  laugh,  she  curled  her  whip  about  the  horse's 


A    NEW    DOMAIN  145 

withers.  Impelled  by  the  lash's  sudden  sting,  the  ani 
mal  sprang  forward  at  a  bound — Bejart  alone  between 
him  and  the  brink. 

"  Out  of  the  way,  thou  clod-poll !  "  cried  Trintete,  her 
wicked  eyes  flashing. 

To  jump  or  to  be  trampled  beneath  the  hoofs,  was  the 
stutterer's  sole  choice;  so  he  leaped  from  the  bank,  and 
stumbling,  fell  headlong  into  the  pond. 

There  was  a  splash,  and  then  a  wild  to-do  among  the 
water-fowl — a  scurrying  of  geese,  a  hurried  flight  of 
ducks.  Amid  angry  quacks  and  hisses  and  the  flapping 
of  wings,  Bejart,  bedraggled,  crawled  up  the  bank, 
pursued  in  his  sorry  flight  by  a  sibilant  gander  who 
pecked  his  lean  calves  and  beat  him  with  lusty  pinions 
till  he  cried  out  in  pain. 

Jeers  greeted  him,  and  when  he  turned  upon  his 
feathered  enemy,  Trinette  would  have  ridden  him  down 
again,  had  not  Moliere,  who  had  hastened  to  the  scene 
of  the  tumult,  seized  her  bridle. 

"  Stop !  "  he  said,  "  enough  is  enough !  " 

"  Withhold  me  not !  "  she  cried,  raising  her  whip  to 
strike  his  extended  arm;  but  the  lash  fell  harmlessly. 
"  You !  "  she  sighed,  the  fury  of  her  glance  changing 
to  a  look  that  told  plainly  of  an  awakening  passion. 
"  Ah,  Moliere,  withhold  me  not  for  ever !  " 

"  My  lady,  you  are  free,"  he  said,  loosening  her 
bridle  rein;  then,  with  mock  suavity,  he  swept  his  hat 
against  his  breast  and  turned  away,  for  the  look  the 
bedizened  girl  gave  him  destroyed  the  charm  of  her 
more  thoroughly  than  her  shameless  revenge  upon 
Bejart  or  the  shrill,  wanton  laughter  which  rang  in  his 
ears. 

"  Milksop !    Baby  in  leading  strings ! "  were  the  words 


146  FAME'S   PATHWAY 

she  hissed,  and  for  a  moment  her  eyes  blazed  malevo 
lently,  till  feeling  it  wise  to  conceal  her  humiliation,  she 
turned  a  smiling  face  on  Bejart. 

"  Never  wake  a  sleeping  cat,"  she  laughed. 

The  stutterer  stood  shaking  the  water  from  his  gaunt 
body.  "  I'll  make  thee  pay  for  this,  thou  drab,"  he  cried, 
his  fist  doubling. 

But  Madeleine's  gentle  voice  stayed  his  wrath.  "  Tush, 
brother,  tush.  The  lass  but  took  a  meet  revenge  for  the 
ducking  you  gave  her." 

These  words  and  the  laughter  of  his  comrades  made 
him  realise  that  anger  ill  became  one  in  his  ludicrous 
state;  so,  picking  up  his  arquebuse  forthwith,  he  jour 
neyed  on  in  silence. 

Exquisitely  severe,  albeit  gentle,  Madeleine  had  re 
buked  her  brother  in  a  way  so  refined  that  Moliere, 
shocked  by  Trinette's  vulgarity,  drew  his  steps  nearer 
to  this  lovable  girl.  They  walked  in  the  cool  of  the  fad 
ing  day,  and  by  the  last  splendid  rays  of  the  sun,  he 
saw  her  sweet  face  beneath  the  coiled  masses  of  her 
reddish  hair.  In  an  ecstasy  of  tenderness,  he  reached 
out  a  hand  to  her,  though  he  felt  an  ache  of  shame  as 
well,  for,  in  taking  Trinette's  part  against  her,  he  knew 
that  he  had  hurt  her  bitterly.  But  she,  glorified  by  the 
look  he  gave  her,  forgot  the  injury  in  the  hope  that  his 
faith  was  abiding.  She  took  his  hand,  nor  did  her  eyes 
refuse  him. 

"Ah,  my  dear  love,  Madeleine,"  he  whispered,  as 
they  tarried  behind  their  comrades,  "  this  day  has  taught 
me  your  worth;  but  it  has  made  me  fear." 

"  You  should  know  now  that  I  adore  you,"  she  mur 
mured;  then  in  the  hush  that  falls  when  the  sun  first 
sinks  to  sleep,  they  kissed  and  comforted  one  another; 


A    NEW    DOMAIN  147 

for  Love  was  awake  and  darting  between  them,  though 
none  saw  him  save  a  single  star. 

Thus  the  day  wore  to  its  ending,  and  other  days  as 
well,  these  lovers  and  their  little  band  journeying  on 
without  further  mishap.  Now  playing  at  friendly  tav 
erns,  or  in  some  grange  or  tennis-court;  now  rehearsing 
by  the  roadside,  or  reciting  verses  as  they  tramped  the 
high-road,  they  reached  in  good  time  the  capital  of 
Normandy,  fair  Rouen  by  the  Seine — there  to  set  up 
their  trestles  and  make  their  bid  for  fame. 


CHAPTER    VI 

FOND    DREAMS    REALISED 

THROUGH  streets  leading  to  the  porte  Bouvreuil,  and 
the  gate  at  the  end  of  the  rue  Beauvoisine,  all  forms  of 
Rouen's  poverty  and  cheating  fared  gaily,  for  the  day 
of  St.  Romain  dawned  crisp  and  clear.  Beyond  the 
ramparts,  two  streams  of  cunning  and  misery  met — - 
cripples,  quacks,  mountebanks  and  mumpers;  some  on 
crutches  or  bent  by  packs ;  some  hobbling  with  the  aid 
of  sticks — for  in  that  grotesque  flood  of  humanity 
marched  the  cheats  of  Normandy. 

In  a  field  beneath  the  tower  where  Jeanne  d'Arc  had 
languished  two  centuries  before,  this  army  of  rascality 
in  rags  and  tatters  halted.  There,  since  the  dawn,  up 
roar  had  reigned;  a  tumult  of  hucksters'  cries  and  toot 
ing  horns,  of  trilling  balladists  and  beating  drums — 
for  the  Fair  of  St.  Romain  in  the  Champ  du  Pardon, 
outside  Rouen's  walls,  was  a  mart  of  chicanery.  There 
yokels  gathered  to  be  cozened;  and  there,  amid  the  tents 
of  gypsies  and  the  booths  of  charlatans,  Moliere  and  his 
comrades  had  built  their  theatre  forain — a  rough-hewn 
affair  of  deals  and  canvas,  with  the  bare  floor  for  a  pit 
and  planks  laid  upon  trestles  for  a  stage. 

While  the  crowd  gaped  in  wonder  at  the  clowns  in 
motley,  the  sturdy  bear-leaders,  the  adroit  jugglers,  and 
the  tinselled  mountebanks  with  Barbary  apes  in  leash, 
unctuous  George  Pinel,  the  scrivener,  fulfilling  the  of 
fice  of  "  orateur,"  stood  haranguing  all  who  would  listen. 

146 


FOND    DREAMS   REALISED          149 

"  Hark  ye,  ladies,  lords,  and  gentlemen !  Hark  ye, 
burghers  and  burgesses !  "  he  cried.  "  This  is  the  Illus 
trious  Theatre !  Here  each  actor  is  proficient  in  the  part 
he  will  assume !  Here  shall  we  play  you  '  The  Liar/ 
a  noble  comedy  writ  in  verse  by  the  Sieur  de  Corneille. 
Of  the  fame  of  this  honourable  native  of  your  city,  I 
need  not  speak!  All  France  does  him  honour!  Of  our 
offering  let  me  say  that  it  is  a  sprightly  play,  wherein 
a  young  man  from  the  provinces  wins  fortune  and  love  in 
Paris  by  lying  to  his  inamorata,  his  father,  his  servant, 
and  his  friends !  For  the  price  of  five  sous,  you  may 
hear  the  falsehoods  of  this  young  scapegrace — fabrica 
tions  so  prodigious  that  I  counsel  all  who  come  within  to 
be  well  staved  by  a  cooper,  lest  laughter  burst  your 
ribs ! " 

Here  Pinel's  tongue  dried  within  his  mouth.  While 
his  sleek  sides  panted,  the  "  master  players  of  instru 
ments  "  produced  sounds  so  boisterous  that  rival  vaga 
bonds  grew  envious.  The  meanwhile,  pedlars,  chap 
men,  balladists,  and  peep-showmen;  woe-begone  beg 
gars,  quacks,  and  acrobats;  manipulators  of  marion- 
nettes ;  pastry  cooks  with  sweetmeats  to  hawk ;  fools  with 
bladder  and  bauble;  and  every  conceivable  trickster — 
from  the  "  coquillarde,"  or  false  pilgrim,  to  the  "  sa- 
bouleux,"  who  chewed  soap  so  that,  foaming  at  the 
mouth,  he  might  pass  for  an  epileptic — sang  the  cries  of 
their  calling  or  bleated  their  infirmities.  Whenever 
Pinel's  voice  grew  hoarse,  the  musicians  tooted  vigor 
ously  and  beat  their  drum.  It  was  a  merry  throng  the 
slippery  scribe  harangued,  a  throng  light  of  heart  and 
gay  in  colour. 

Opposite  the  crude  theatre  stood  a  booth  devoted  to 
"  paye  qui  tombe,"  a  game  of  merriment.  There  a 


150  FAME'S   PATHWAY 

tight  rope  had  been  stretched;  and  across  it  each  new 
comer  must  walk  or  pay  the  forfeit;  whereby  many  a 
dunce  and  many  a  dame  fell  sprawling  to  the  ground. 
The  shouts  and  guffaws  attracted  the  crowd  thither. 
When  those  who  had  paid  the  forfeit  many  a  time  and 
were  bruised  in  many  a  place  espied  the  Illustrious 
Theatre,  they  entered  by  twos  and  threes  till  a  plumed 
cavalier  passed  in;  then  they  followed  like  a  flock  of 
sheep  after  a  bell-wether. 

Behind  a  curtain  of  travel-stained  damask,  Moliere 
stood  quaking,  his  nerves  all  a-tremble.  Here  was  a 
theatre  filling  with  the  people  of  a  city  where  Mondory 
first  had  played  Corneille's  "  M  elite ;  "  whither  the  best 
actors  of  France  came  from  time  to  time.  No  gathering 
of  stupid  burghers  of  Poissy  was  this;  nor  of  clod-polls 
either.  All  Rouen  was  on  pleasure  bent. 

Through  a  rent  in  the  curtain  he  gazed  at  the  rabble 
in  the  pit:  lackeys,  soldiers,  artisans,  and  impecunious 
gentlemen.  Discordant  sounds  filled  his  ears — laughter, 
oaths,  and  ribald  jests;  the  tuning  of  instruments;  the 
click  of  rapier  and  spur;  the  shrill  cries  of  the  orange- 
girl.  Upon  a  rough  platform  where  benches  had  been 
placed  in  lieu  of  boxes,  fine  gentlemen  were  whispering 
to  their  lady-loves.  There  ardent  glances  passed  to 
amorous  eyes  glowing  beneath  black  velvet  masks. 
Afraid  to  gaze  longer  upon  these  faces  he  must  move 
to  laughter,  Moliere  turned  away,  lest  his  courage 
faH. 

Upon  the  stage  a  row  of  dandies  sat  combing  their 
wigs.  A  soubrette's  cap  perched  coyly  on  her  raven 
locks,  the  tips  of  her  fingers  within  the  pockets  of  her 
apron,  Trinette  stood  near.  Already  her  eyes  were 
slanting.  As  Moliere  passed,  a  fop  called  to  her: 

"  Eh,  my  pretty  one,  who  's  that  lank  fellow  with  the 


FOND    DREAMS    REALISED          151 

big  nose  and  the  bushy  eyebrows?  Is  he  an  actor  in 
your  comedy;  or  a  lout  decked  out  with  sword  and  cloak 
to  pass  for  a  gentleman?  " 

"  That's  Moliere,  sir,"  the  girl  laughed  back.  "  He 
means  to  set  the  world  afire." 

"  Not  with  his  looks/'  the  jackanapes  chuckled. 
"  Morbleu,  he  '11  not  be  hanged  for  them !  " 

Angry  tears  welled  in  Moliere's  eyes  and  would  have 
flowed,  had  not  a  hand  touched  his.  Turning,  he  met 
the  sympathetic  eyes  of  Madeleine. 

"  Fear  not,"  she  whispered.  "  Play  as  you  played  at 
Poissy.  Be  natural;  be  yourself." 

"  Ah,  Madeleine  dear,"  he  said,  "  for  your  sake  I  '11 
play  with  all  the  ardour  in  me." 

Fiddles  were  squeaking  shrewdly;  restless  feet  were 
shuffling.  Beys,  made  self-sufficient  by  the  office  of  re- 
gisseur,  pounded  three  times  with  a  cudgel.  To  find 
Bejart,  his  valet  in  the  comedy,  Moliere  glanced  high 
and  low.  At  last  he  spied  a  pair  of  spindle  legs  be 
neath  a  curtain.  Soon  a  chalked  face  emerged,  and  with 
it  a  lean  torso. 

To  the  stutterer's  side  sped  the  young  actor,  there  to 
stand  on  trembling  legs  until  the  curtains  parted;  thence 
to  the  centre  of  the  stage  he  strode,  knowing  not  how 
nor  scarcely  why.  Behind  him  was  a  strip  of  painted 
canvas;  before  him  those  surging  faces.  His  eyes  fell 
upon  a  rigid  burgher  seated  on  the  uttermost  bench — 
a  lawyer,  he  looked;  a  lawyer  who  had  never  smiled. 
If  this  stern  face  were  moved  to  mirth,  the  rest  mattered 
not.  To  him  he  spoke  these  lines: 

"At  last  my  lawyer's  gown  I  've  doffed,  a  sword 
To  swing !   The  waiting  has  been  none  too  gay ! 
Full  leave  to  heed  this  choice,  my  father  grants; 
Indeed,  I  've  bankrupted  that  legal  trash! 


152  FAME'S   PATHWAY 

Since  in  the  Tuileries  we  loiter  now, 

That  land  of  gallantry  where  Fashion  stalks, 

Tell  me  if  I  be  not  of  courtly  grace? 

If  aught  of  student  airs  you  may  discern? 

For  in  the  kingdom  of  the  law,  't  is  hard 

A  modish  look  and  bearing  to  acquire. 

In  sooth,  I  've  much  to  fear " 

With  the  sound  of  his  own  voice,  courage  came  to  him. 
"At  last  a  lawyer's  gown  I  Ve  doffed,"  he  mused;  for 
like  himself,  Dorante,  the  young  reprobate  he  was  por 
traying,  had  discarded  musty  books  a  modish  look  and 
bearing  to  acquire. 

He  forgot  almost  that  he  was  playing  in  a  comedy. 
In  his  turn  to  speak,  he  held  that  the  climate  of  Paris 
was  different  from  that  of  Poictiers,  whence  he  came. 
"  Other  qualities  are  needed  here,"  quoth  he. 

Thus  the  valet  answered  him: 

"Know  Paris  better,  since  you  speak  of  her; 
For  here,  things  seldom  are  as  they  appear. 
A  mighty  haunt  where  haggling  merchants  crowd; 
A  place  where  you  '11  be  duped  as  nowhere  else 
In  France!  That  's  Paris,  sir!  And  here  amid 
More  polished  wits,  as  many  numskulls  dwell; 
Ay,  more  than  elsewhere !     Into  the  tumult 
This  great  world  creates,  from  everywhere  come 
Men  of  every  sort;  for,  in  all  France 
Few  spots  exist  where  refuse  is  not  found 
Beside  the  choice.     Badly  men  know  their  kind! 
Each  decks  himself,  and  passes  current  here 
With  common  ease  for  full  the  price  he  puts 
Upon  himself.    In  Paris  fellows  worse 
Than  you  succeed  in  being  deemed  of  worth!" 

"  In  Paris,"  brooded  Moliere,  "  men  pass  for  the 
price  each  sets  upon  himself.  There  fellows  worse  than 
I  succeed." 

He  was  recalled  to  his  part  of  Dorante  by  Madeleine, 
who  came  upon  the  stage  to  enact  a  chaste  coquette. 


FOND    DREAMS    REALISED          153 

With  her  came  La  Malingre,  as  a  maiden  more  demure; 
and  Trinette,  too,  to  play  a  lady's  maid. 

With  his  valet  tugging  at  his  sleeve,  Dorante  lied 
glibly  to  these  ladies  of  his  prowess  in  wars  he  had  never 
fought,  and  when  they  had  gone,  he  lied  to  the  lover  of 
her  whose  charms  had  smitten  him — Alcippe,  his  own 
bosom  friend.  Hearing  him  laud  an  entertainment,  he 
declared  himself  to  be  the  giver  of  the  fete.  The 
barges,  the  collation,  the  lutes,  the  hautboys,  and  the 
violins,  the  jasmine  and  orange  flowers  that  made  each 
bark  a  festal  hall,  the  rockets  and  fusees  that  turned 
the  night  into  another  day,  were  paid  for  by  his  purse, 
he  vowed,  in  honour  of  a  lady  whom  he  loved.  Seeing 
in  him  a  rival,  Alcippe  burned  with  jealousy. 

Watching  this  scene  anxiously,  Madeleine  saw  that 
Moliere's  acting  had  the  spontaneous  charm  of  the  pedant 
he  had  played  in  Poissy.  His  liar  was  a  pleasing  brag 
gart  whose  fibs  were  prompted  by  no  deeper  malice  than 
a  wish  to  hide  his  rural  birth,  a  longing  to  appear  a 
gallant.  Beneath  his  falsity  ran  an  undercurrent  of 
youth  and  joyousness  that  made  him  lovable. 

The  curtains  closed.  The  coxcombs  stretched  them 
selves;  then  cast  fond  glances  right  and  left,  to  which 
Trinette  proved  not  averse.  Moliere,  hastening  to  the 
wings,  met  Madeleine  radiant  with  smiles. 

"  Not  a  groan  nor  a  hiss,"  she  said.  "  No  apples  to 
pelt  you,  though  you  are  in  Normandy,  the  land  of 
them.  Ah,  Moliere,  lad,  you  little  realise  how  well  you 
played!" 

"  I  little  realise  how  I  did  play  at  all,"  he  laughed. 
"  Upon  the  farthest  bench,  I  saw  a  sallow  lawyer  with 
a  look  so  stern  that  I  resolved  to  play  to  him,  because  he 
was  the  most  forbidding;  and  when  my  voice  rang  out, 


154  FAME'S   PATHWAY 

fear  vanished,  for  the  lines  I  uttered  seemed  to  be  an 
echo  of  myself,  so  like  were  they  to  my  condition." 

"  You  were  yourself/'  she  cried;  "  and  being  so,  your 
art  was  true." 

"  Far  rather  would  I  be  a  hero  with  exalted  lines  to 
speak." 

"  Exalted  fiddle-faddle/'  said  Madeleine  scornfully. 
"  He  does  well  what  he  knows  best." 

Before  he  could  reply,  an  elbow  pushed  him  ruthlessly 
aside.  Turning,  he  saw  the  rake  whose  jest  to  Trinette 
had  hurt  him  so  cruelly.  He  caught  a  whiff  of  frangi- 
pane,  then  heard  a  drawling  voice: 

"When  there  are  gentlemen  about,  a  lady  fair  as 
you  should  waste  no  time  upon  an  actor.  Pardi,  I'd 
give  a  louis  d'or  to  kiss  those  lips !  " 

"  A  price  that  puts  but  little  value  on  their  charms/' 
said  Madeleine  tartly. 

Moliere  clutched  the  rapier  by  his  side.  To  run  the 
fellow  through  was  his  desire;  yet  caste  was  pitiless,  he 
knew.  This  fop  might  have  him  beaten  by  his  servants 
if  he  wished — him,  the  buffoon,  the  vagabond.  He 
turned  away  to  curb  the  anger  surging  in  his  breast. 
Beside  him  stood  Beys  mopping  his  neck  lest  the  broad 
linen  collar  he  had  donned  should  melt;  in  the  pit,  the 
noises  grew  apace — an  uproar  of  voices,  the  stamping 
of  feet.  The  fat  poet  rapped  three  times  upon  the  stage. 
The  curtains  parted.  Moliere  waited  for  his  cue.  In 
his  anxiety  to  sway  that  multitude  once  more,  his  anger 
vanished. 

In  a  maze  of  complications  caused  by  Dorante's  lies, 
the  play  went  on,  till  Moliere,  debonair,  his  eyes  aglow 
with  zeal,  came  upon  the  stage  to  play  that  guileful  liar. 

Seeking  to  foil  his  father  in  the  play,  in  the  wish 
that  he  should  marry  a  lady  not  to  his  taste,  he  begged 


FOND    DREAMS   REALISED          155 

forgiveness  for  having  married  in  the  provinces  Orphise, 
a  fictitious  maiden  who  had  charmed  him,  he  averred, 
with  her  wit  and  beauty.  Urged  to  confess  the  truth  in 
its  entirety,  he  told  this  lie  of  lies: 

"I  visited  her  chamber,  I  believe, 
September  second.    Ay,  beyond  a  doubt 
I  was  entrapped  that  day.    In  town  that  night 
Her  father  supped;  returning  home,  he  climbed 
The  stairs,  until  he  reached  her  door,  then  knocked. 
Ashamed,  alarmed,  now  turning  pale,  now  red, 
She  hid  me  in  a  corner;  then,  opened  wide 
The  door,  and  her  confusion  to  conceal, 
The  worthy  man  embraced  with  tenderness. 
An  artful  minx  was  she!   Upon  a  chair 
Sat  he  to  tell  her  that  he  wished  to  see 
Her  stationed  well  in  life.    With  this  in  view, 
He  named  a  suitor,  who  implored  that  he 
Accord  her  hand  forthwith.    Judge  how  my  heart 
Beat  then;  and  judge  how  painfully  I  suffered! 
By  subtlety  she  gladdened  him;  and  me 
She  likewise  pacified;  until,  at  last, 
The  tiresome  meeting  closed,  and  the  good  man 
Prepared  to  take  his  leave.    Just  then,  my  watch 
Struck  lustily,  and  he,  astonished,  gazed 
In  wonder  on  his  child.    '  Since  when,'  he  asked, 
'This  watch  hast  thou?    Who  gave  it  thee?'    'Acaste,' 
Said  she,  'my  cousin,  sent  it  me  to  be 
Repaired,  since  in  the  village  where  he  dwells 
Watchmakers  are  unknown.'     It  sounded  twice 
Within  the  quarter  hour.    '  Pray  give  it  me,' 
Quoth  he.    '  Far  better  care  than  thou  I'll  take 
Of  it.'    To  have  it  from  me,  she  approached 
The  corner  where  I  was  concealed.    I  gave 
The  watch  into  her  hand.    Alas!  the  chain 
Entwined  about  my  pistol  butt,  pulled  hard 
The  trigger;  whereupon  the  powder  flashed 
Within  the  pan !   Off  went  the  charge !   Pray  think 
How  we  by  this  sad  mishap  were  dismayed! 
Upon  the  floor  swooned  she!    I  thought  her  dead! 
Her  father,  frightened,  hastened  to  the  door 
To  summon  aid.    '  Thou  murderer ! '  cried  he. 
His  sons  and  servants  twain  my  flight  opposed! 
O'erborne  by  rage,  by  failure  driven  mad, 
I  fought,  with  weapon  drawn,  a  way  to  slash! 


156  FAME'S   PATHWAY 

Ill-luck  still  reigned !    In  fragments  three  my  sword 

Was  shattered  then!    Disarmed,  backward  to  trace 

My  steps  was  I  compelled,  until  Orphise, 

Recovered  from  her  fright,  showed  wit 

Enough  to  close  the  door  upon  herself 

And  me.    Then,  meaning  to  defend  ourselves 

Anew,  we  heaped  the  tables,  chairs,  and  bed 

Against  the  door,  the  footstool  and  the  chest, 

A  barricade  to  make.    Sufficient  time 

To  parley  or  to  win  we  sought  to  gain. 

First  one  and  then  another  fought  against 

This  rampart;  then  a  wall  was  pierced.    O'erpowered, 

At  last,  was  I,  and  fain  must  come  to  terms ! " 

The  uncouth  play-house  trembled  with  applause. 
Then  the  father  said:  "  To  speak  plain  French,  't  was 
meet  that  you  should  marry." 

The  lad  spoke  on, — his  eye  alight,  his  cheek  flushed 
with  confidence: 

"  Entrapped  with  her  at  night  was  I.     Her  kin 
The  stronger  seemed,  and  she  o'er-beautiful. 
The  scandal  had  been  great!    Her  honour  lost. 
What  other  course  had  I?    I  asked  myself. 
Her  efforts  for  my  safety,  and  her  tears, 
Her  peril,  too,  unto  my  loving  heart 
But  added  charms.     Her  honour  and  my  life 
To  save,  the  utmost  pinnacle  of  joy 
With  her  to  mount,  I  spoke  a  single  word 
That  changed  this  tempest  into  happiness. 
I  did  what  any  gentleman  thus  placed 
Should  do.     Choose,  whether  you  will  see  me  die 
Or  have  this  jewel  none  may  love  too  well." 

The  citizens  of  Rouen  saw  upon  the  stage  a  fellow 
with  the  gait  and  bearing  of  the  provinces  lying  to  de 
ceive  a  doting  father  just  as  they  had  lied  themselves 
in  youth.  Being  fathers  now,  they  laughed,  wondering 
when  their  sons  would  lie  to  them — wondering  how  often 
they  had. 

Elated  and  content,  Moliere,  gazing  upon  the  faces 
he  had  moved  to  merriment,  sought  the  lawyer  on  the 


FOND   DREAMS    REALISED          157 

farthest  bench  to  see  if  he  had  smiled.  At  last,  he 
found  the  face  he  looked  for — a  face  cold  as  Riche 
lieu's.  The  hair  atop  this  grave  man's  head  was  thin, 
his  ample  side-locks  curled.  His  eye  was  stern,  his 
nose  straight  and  forbidding :  yet,  while  the  actor  looked, 
although  the  man  smiled  not,  he  thought  he  spied 
a  sympathetic  glance  that  seemed  to  say,  "  Well  done !  " 

A  prompting  aroused  him,  and  in  a  whirlwind  of  in 
trigue,  the  comedy  proceeded,  until  the  curtains  closed 
upon  this  play,  the  first  real  comedy  of  France.  Gen 
erous  applause  resounded  through  the  theatre ;  the  actors 
smiled  exultantly,  each  thrilled  with  the  feeling  that  his 
efforts  that  day  had  been  invested  with  success,  that  the 
applause  was  mainly  for  him. 

In  search  of  further  merriment,  a  gratified  pit  filed 
out,  but  the  dandies  on  the  stage  were  loath  to  leave 
the  sunshine  of  Trinette's  languishing  and  La  Ma- 
lingre's  smiles.  For  a  time  these  beribboned  gallants 
smirked  and  philandered;  till,  Beys,  bowing  low  and 
speaking  humbly,  begged  some  measure  of  quiet,  in 
order  that  the  day's  receipts  might  be  counted.  Ren 
dezvous  were  whispered  then;  and  when  the  boards  were 
cleared,  the  actors  gathered  in  the  tiring  room  they  had 
improvised  behind  the  stage. 

Moliere  came,  holding  Madeleine's  hand,  while  his 
heart  beat  joyously.  She  murmured  praises  for  his 
acting  of  Dorante,  and  her  words  assured  him  of  his 
triumph.  Already  he  had  tasted  deep  the  sweets  of  it, 
for  the  laughing  faces  and  the  hand-claps  told  him  he 
had  swayed  an  audience.  He  had  felt,  too,  the  thrill 
that  came  with  this  knowledge;  yet,  the  lying  spark  he 
had  enacted  seemed  the  merest  trifle  to  his  excited  mind. 
He  longed  to  play  a  serious  role — a  hero  worthy  his 
ideals. 


15S  FAME'S   PATHWAY 

The  applause  still  ringing  gaily  in  his  ears,  he 
watched  the  door-porter  bring  the  silver  livres  and  cop 
per  sous — fruits  of  his  own  talent. 

With  all  the  company  present,  save  Pinel  the  orateur, 
Beys  and  Be j  art  counted  the  money.  The  absent  scribe 
came  at  last,  his  lustreless  eyes  for  once  alight.  In  his 
breathless  haste  he  stumbled  and  upset  the  piles  of 
coin.  Beys  cursed.  Bejart  sought  a  cudgel. 

"  Comrades !  "  cried  Pinel,  before  the  stutterer  could 
belabour  him.  "  Who  think  you  was  in  our  play-house 
this  day?  " 

"The  queen  regent  and  Mazarin,  to  judge  by  thy 
perturbation,"  laughed  Moliere. 

"  Corneille ! "  the  scrivener  replied,  when  he  could 
catch  his  breath ;  "  a  greater  one  than  they  to  my 
thinking." 

"  Corneille !  "  exclaimed  the  actors  and  actresses  in 
chorus,  their  eyes  blazing  with  excitement. 

"  Ay,  Corneille,  the  Master !  "  said  Pinel,  glowing 
with  the  importance  of  his  tidings.  "  Moreover,  I 
have  talked  with  him." 

"W-w-what  said  he?"  stuttered  Bejart.  "That 
w-w-we  were  an  impertinent  lot  to  b-b-butcher  his 
comedy?  " 

"  Listen,  and  you  shall  hear.  Unknown  to  me  he  came 
in  quietly  to  sit  upon  the  farthest  bench,  within  the 
shadow  of  a  wall." 

"  Upon  the  farthest  bench ! "  repeated  Moliere 
quickly — a  vision  of  a  stern  lawyer  in  his  mind. 

"Ay,"  said  Pinel,  "and  sombre  as  a  judge.  But 
when  he  left,  I,  standing  at  the  entrance,  heard  a  friend 
ask  what  he  thought  of  our  rendition  of  his  comedy. 
'  Admirable ! '  he  said.  '  Admirable ! '  Imagine  how 


FOND    DREAMS    REALISED          159 

my  heart  beat  then,  for  as  he  spoke,  another  called  him 
by  his  name ;  and  then  I  knew  this  doleful  man  in  black, 
whom  I  had  mistaken  for  an  atrabilious  lawyer,  to  be 
Corneille,  the  author  of  '  The  Cid '  and  of  our  humble 
offering  this  day !  " 

Of  all  that  shabby  company,  the  most  excited  was 
Moliere.  Corneille,  the  lawyer  on  the  farthest  bench, 
to  whom  he  played  in  desperation,  because  he  looked 
the  most  forbidding!  His  hands  chilled  with  terror 
at  his  own  temerity. 

"  Said  he  nought  else  ?  "  he  asked  excitedly. 

"  He  said  what  I  should  tell  thee  not,  lest  it  turn  thy 
young  head,"  the  scribe  replied.  '  '  The  lad  who  essayed 
Dorante  was  excellent/  he  assured  his  friend.  '  He 
played  the  part  as  it  should  be  played,  with  fidelity  to 
life.  He  has  a  future,  an  he  persevere.'  Then,  of  mes 
he  asked  thy  name." 

An  envious  silence  greeted  Pinel's  words,  but  a  joy 
too  intense  to  be  credited  thrilled  Moliere's  soul.  The 
realisation  of  his  fondest  dreams  seemed  within  his 
grasp.  Ecstasy  was  no  longer  a  meaningless  word  to 
him;  rapture  was  a  state  too  real  to  be  denied.  His 
eyes  sought  Madeleine,  and  she,  alone  of  all  that  jealous 
company,  spoke  the  words  his  young  heart  longed  to 
hear. 

"  Well  done,  Moliere !  "  she  cried.  "  Well  done !  I  'm 
sure  each  comrade  here  is  proud  of  your  triumph." 

An  acquiescence  barely  audible  faltered  from  lip 
to  lip.  The  young  actor  pressed  fondly  sweet  Made 
leine's  hand,  and  whispered  for  her  ear  alone:  "If  I 
had  known  that  sallow  lawyer  was  Corneille,  of  fright 
I  should  have  perished  ere  I  spoke  a  line." 


CHAPTER  VII 

THE    SALLOW    LAWYER 

ALL  Paris  marvelling  at  his  talent;  the  Illustrious  The 
atre  filled  from  pit  to  gallery;  his  cherished  art  restored 
to  the  plane  it  had  held  in  ancient  Greece — these,  and 
countless  more  wild  dreams  of  triumph,  haunted 
Moliere's  brain  so  persistently  and  perversely  that  Mad 
eleine  was  at  her  wits'  end  to  keep  his  vanity  in  check. 
She  sought  to  convince  him  that  a  provincial  success  was 
far  from  a  Parisian  triumph:  yet,  having  pleased  Cor- 
neille  as  Dorante,  he  longed  to  play  Horace,  Rodrigue, 
and  the  other  tragic  roles  of  the  Master.  Madeleine 
said,  "  Patience  is  the  path  to  greatness." 

This  made  him  obstreperous,  and  he  averred  that  the 
unclean  farces  which  delight  the  lock-pickers  and 
gamblers  of  Paris  had  no  place  on  legitimate  boards. 

"  In  tragedy  alone,"  said  he,  "an  actor  finds  a  worthy 
foil." 

"  Corneille,"  answered  she,  "  wrote  six  plays  of  medi 
ocre  worth  before  he  wrote  '  The  Cid.'  Play  as  many 
middling  roles  before  you  play  Rodrigue." 

To  this  argument  the  petulant  lad  acquiesced  for  the 
time  being,  she  taking  good  care  that  only  comedies  and 
farces  were  offered  to  the  denizens  of  the  fair.  In  this 
way  the  coffers  of  the  company  were  filled. 

A  week  passed  quickly;  then  the  merry  andrews  and 
mountebanks  folded  their  tents,  and  together  with  the 
cut-purses  and  mumpers,  sought  a  field  for  their  chi 
canery  within  the  walls  of  Rouen.  Our  players,  too, 

160 


THE    SALLOW   LAWYER  161 

removed  their  trestles   to  a  tennis-court   appropriately 
named  the  "  Braques,"  or  "  The  Giddy  Brained." 

From  Paris  came  word  that  the  work  of  altering  their 
theatre  lagged.  To  arouse  the  master  builder  and  the 
carpenter  from  lethargy,  a  notary  was  summoned  and  a 
mandate  drawn  whereby  these  sluggards  were  con 
strained  by  all  legal  means  to  fulfil  their  contract.  Be 
ing  duly  executed,  it  was  despatched  to  Paris,  whilst  the 
players  lashed  themselves  into  a  fume  of  anxiety  lest 
their  theatre  be  not  ready  against  their  home-coming. 

Meanwhile,  Moliere  chafed  in  motley.  To  replete 
the  common  treasury,  this  playing  of  "  worthy  fools  " 
was  all  very  well,  but  it  was  beneath  his  ideals  and  his 
dignity.  He  meant  to  essay  a  serious  part  whether 
Madeleine  willed  yea  or  nay. 

Seeing  him  obdurate,  and  fearing  a  catastrophe 
should  he  play  a  lover,  she  suggested  Herod,  King  of 
the  Jews,  in  Francois  Tristan  de  I'Hennite's  tragedy 
of  "  Mariamne."  The  monotonous  tones  of  his  voice 
would  bespeak  a  certain  regal  dignity,  she  thought,  his 
prominent  nose  was  suggestively  Hebraic,  his  thick  lips 
would  lend  an  air  of  ferocity  to  this  jealous  king. 

Unwillingly  he  played  the  role  one  day,  yet  not  with 
out  success.  Madeleine's  prescience  had  divined  truly. 
His  very  faults  made  Herod  kingly.  But  as  Mar 
iamne,  royal  daughter  of  Judea,  she  was  exquisite,  and 
there  was  the  rub. 

Whilst  applause  for  Madeleine  still  resounded 
through  the  tennis-court,  Trinette,  seeing  Moliere  stand 
ing  dejectedly  in  the  wings,  went  toward  him.  Since 
the  day  of  Bej  art's  ducking,  her  witchery  had  waned; 
but  now  the  moment  seemed  opportune  for  injecting 
the  poison  of  envy  into  his  inexperienced  heart. 


162  FAME'S   PATHWAY 

"  Madeleine  is  a  charming  Mariamne,"  she  said  by 
way  of  a  preliminary  feint. 

"  She  is,  in  truth/'  he  answered  warmly,  his  love 
making  him  proud  of  her  triumph. 

"  We  are  not  all  born  with  such  talent/'  she  sighed. 
"  It  is  hard  to  feel  that  a  soubrette  is  the  measure  of  my 
ability.  But  I  have  a  jealous  heart,  Moliere,  whilst  you 
are  generous." 

"  I  generous !  "  he  exclaimed.  "  Indeed  I  envy  any 
one  success." 

Stealthily  her  black  eyes  glanced  at  him.  Her  low 
ered  voice  was  soft  and  purring.  "  In  truth  you  are 
generous/'  she  said;  "  else  you  would  leave  to  Beys  or 
Bejart  the  part  of  a  cruel  king.  You,  the  youngest 
and  best  favoured,  with  warm  blood  in  your  veins  and 
the  fire  of  passion  in  your  heart,  should  play  a  lover  or 
a  hero,  not  a  miscreant  with  a  beard ! " 

He  stroked  nervously  the  beard  she  spoke  of. 
"  Madeleine  assured  me  that  I  could  play  the  role  of 
Herod  better  than  her  brother,"  he  faltered. 

The  girl  restrained  a  smile  with  difficulty.  "  Mar 
iamne  is  a  part  par  excellence  for  her,"  she  said.  "  Re 
member  your  success  in  '  The  Liar.  '  Ah,  had  you  seen 
the  jealous  glances  that  flashed  from  her  eyes  that 
day!" 

"  An  injustice,"  he  said  quickly. 

Trinette  shrugged  hter  pretty  shoulders.  "  I  said 
nought  ill  of  her :  moreover,  it  is  her  privilege  to  choose 
the  roles  that  please  her  best." 

"And  I  am  glad  't  is  so,"  answered  he,  loyalty  to 
Madeleine  forcing  him  to  quell  the  jealousy  this  girl 
had  instilled  in  him;  "  glad  because  she  wins  great 
credit  for  our  enterprise." 


THE    SALLOW    LAWYER  163 

"  According  to  the  contract  signed  last  June  you  have 
the  right  to  play  the  role  of  hero." 

"  Successively  with  Bejart  and  Clerin,"  he  said;  "one 
hero  out  of  three." 

She  toyed  with  a  scarf  about  her  shoulders,  knotting 
and  unknotting  it  several  times;  then  looked  into  his 
face  suddenly.  "  Demand  your  rights !  An  actor  who 
can  play  Dorante  so  notably  as  to  win  Corneille's  praise 
should  aspire  to  greater  things  than  miscreants  and 
scapegraces." 

Having  launched  this  poisoned  shaft,  the  minx  left 
him  to  his  own  mean  spirit.  How  well  Trinette  had 
read  his  heart,  he  thought;  for  he  longed  indeed  to 
scale  the  highest  peaks.  More  than  once  Madeleine 
had  sought  to  curb  his  ambition !  "  Ah,  had  you  seen 
the  jealous  glances  that  flashed  from  her  eyes  that 
day  I "  Whilst  he  finished  the  uncongenial  role  of 
Herod,  those  words  of  Trinette  echoed  and  re-echoed  in 
his  ears.  The  theatre  rang  with  applause  for  Made 
leine.  He,  the  hateful  king,  was  the  recipient  of  angry 
glances,  even  hisses. 

"  Can  it  be,"  he  asked  himself,  when  the  play  was 
ended,  "  that  she  deliberately  represses  my  talent  in 
order  to  enhance  her  own  ?  " 

"  Perish  the  thought ! "  his  heart  cried  out.  Yet 
striVe  as  he  might  to  quell  the  wicked  spirit  Trinette's 
cunning  had  aroused,  he  could  not  stifle  it  entirely,  for 
it  was  an  ambitious  spirit  as  well — a  longing  to  achieve. 

When  the  obnoxious  beard  of  Herod  had  been  dis 
carded,  Moliere,  seeking  to  avoid  the  talk  and  banter  of 
his  comrades,  went  forth  into  the  clear  November  air. 
It  was  near  the  hour  of  sunset.  At  a  corner  of  the  rue 
du  Paneret,  he  tarried,  uncertain  in  which  direction  to 


1641  FAME'S   PATHWAY 

stroll.  To  the  left  stood  the  old  palace  of  Rouen  with 
its  moated  walls  and  castellated  towers;  to  the  right 
the  way  led  to  the  market-place  where  Jeanne  d'Arc 
had  paid  to  English  hate  the  penalty  of  loving  France 
too  well.  The  fish  mart  and  pillory  were  there.  Fear 
ing  to  be  reminded  of  the  market-place  of  Paris  where 
his  father  truckled  to  the  mighty  and  ground  the  last 
sou  from  the  poor,  he  turned  instinctively  to  the  left  and 
wandered  toward  the  Seine. 

Passing  beneath  a  city  gate,  he  stood  outside  the 
walls  upon  the  quai  de  la  Romaine.  Freighted  with 
barges  from  Paris  and  ships  from  the  sea,  the  winding 
river  flowed  past  him  silently.  To  the  west,  in  a  rose- 
tinged  sky,  hung  purple  clouds.  Behind  the  tree  tops 
of  a  forest,  the  sun  was  sinking  in  a  flood  of  molten 
gold  while  burnishing  the  water  with  its  rays.  A  brisk 
wind  sang  through  the  cordage  of  the  vessels;  sailors, 
clewing  the  top-sails  of  a  galleon,  chanted  a  weird  re 
frain;  upon  the  gleaming  river  sailed  a  ship  from  Eng 
land,  the  ruffled  water  rippling  from  her  prow,  her  can 
vas  tinged  with  golden  light  and  bellied  by  the  wind. 
A  phantom  ship  she  seemed,  upon  a  sea  of  fire;  then,  as 
the  twilight  fell,  he  thought  her  some  strange  and 
heavenly  bird  with  glowing  wings,  so  new  was  the  sight 
of  this  proud  being  of  the  seas  to  his  landsman's  eyes. 

Near  him,  upon  the  quay,  a  fire  was  crackling. 
Around  it  squatted  a  group  of  tawny  seamen.  A  pot 
was  stewing  above  the  flames;  a  rollicking  song  was 
welling  forth.  To  see  what  manner  of  men  these 
bearded  sailors  were,  he  approached  them  and  exchanged 
a  word  of  greeting  with  the  chief,  a  low-browed  fel 
low  with  earrings  and  a  dirk. 

A  man  of  legal  bearing,  wrapped  in  a  flowing  black 


8S 
$ 

a 


THE    SALLOW   LAWYER  165 

cloak,  was  passing  at  the  time;  and  as  the  firelight  fell 
on  Moliere's  face,  he  gazed  at  him  intently;  then  ap 
proached  him  and  spoke :  "  Is  not  your  name  Moliere  ? 
And  are  you  not  the  young  actor  I  saw  play  the  role  of 
Dorante  in  my  comedy?" 

At  those  words  "  my  comedy,"  Moliere's  heart  thrilled 
with  awe.  Looking  up,  he  met  the  stern  eye  of  him  he 
had  thought  to  be  a  sallow  lawyer  that  day  when  he  had 
played  before  the  haunters  of  a  fair.  So  frightened 
was  he  at  finding  himself  face  to  face  with  the  Master 
he  revered  that  he  could  barely  say :  "  Yes,  monsieur ; 
I  am  Moliere." 

Corneille  saw  the  young  man's  embarrassment;  and 
to  lighten  it,  he  said  with  as  much  graciousness  as  one 
so  notoriously  reticent  as  he  could  assume :  "  You 
played  Dorante  well.  I  liked  your  rendition.  How 
long  have  you  been  upon  the  stage  ?  " 

"  You  witnessed  my  debut,  sir,"  the  lad  faltered ; 
"  that  is  to  say,  my  debut  before  any  considerable 
audience.  I  had  played  to  friends  in  Paris  and,  on  the 
way  hither,  in  the  tap-rooms  of  inns;  but  never  to  so 
large  a  gathering." 

The  poet  drew  his  cloak  about  his  shoulders.  Taking 
a  step  toward  the  gate  of  St.  Elroy,  he  said:  "I  have 
just  debarked  from  the  packet  that  brought  me  from 
Havre-de-Grace,  where  I  have  been  upon  legal  matters 
since  the  day  of  your  debut.  Are  you  walking  toward 
the  city?  I  should  like  to  talk  with  you." 

For  the  privilege  of  talking  with  the  author  of  "  The 
Cid,"  Moliere  would  have  walked  to  the  end  of  the 
earth.  As  these  two  lovers  of  the  stage  stepped  forth, 
the  one  a  mature  genius  of  thirty-seven,  whose  tragedies 
had  set  all  France  agog,  the  other  a  neophyte  of  one- 


166  FAME'S   PATHWAY 

and-twenty,  darkness  had  fallen  upon  the  valley  of  the 
Seine.  At  the  gate  they  were  questioned  by  the  city 
watch,  yet  allowed  to  pass. 

Inside  the  walls,  lights  began  to  glimmer  in  the  win 
dows  of  the  wealthy,  but  the  poor  groped  in  darkened 
hovels.  The  air  had  the  chilliness  of  winter.  In  many 
a  shop  a  brazier  was  glowing;  but  the  cold  mattered 
not  to  Moliere,  for  he  was  warmed  by  a  celestial  fire. 
He,  an  unknown  stroller,  walking  beside  the  great  Cor- 
neille  and  talking  with  him,  too!  Readily,  to  the  Mas 
ter's  questioning,  he  told  the  simple  facts  in  his  career — 
his  schooling  in  a  Jesuit  college,  his  distaste  for  his 
father's  trade,  his  desultory  study  of  the  law,  his  passion 
for  the  stage. 

As  the  lad's  story  progressed,  Corneille's  stern  look 
relaxed  into  an  expression  of  keen  interest.  "  I  went 
to  a  Jesuit  college  too,  he  said,  "  and  then  studied  the 
law.  I  was  even  admitted  as  an  advocate  before  the 
parliament  of  Rouen;  but  my  speech  is  too  unready,  I 
fear,  for  the  legal  profession.  However,  I  still  retain 
a  judgeship  my  father  purchased  for  me  when  I  was 
about  your  age." 

Moliere  raised  his  eager  face  reverently.  "  All  the 
judgeships  in  the  land  are  not  an  iota  to  your  mastery," 
he  cried.  '  The  Cid '  is  an  epoch  in  the  dramatic 
history  of  France!  Until  you  penned  that  masterpiece, 
the  passions  that  rend  the  heart  had  not  been  painted. 
Duty,  tenderness,  honour,  love,  and  nobility  were  un 
known  upon  our  stage.  Ah,  sir,  you  were  the  valiant 
knight  who  rescued  our  drama  from  the  vulgar  toils  of 
cunning  priests  and  lewd  buffoons.  '  Beautiful  as  "  The 
Cid !  "  Those  words  have  become  a  proverb  for  those 
who  would  express  wonder  and  admiration." 

Although    flatttered    by   this    eulogy,    Corneille   read 


THE    SALLOW    LAWYER  167 

deeper  than  the  surface  of  Moliere's  words.  Those 
dark  eyes,  glowing  so  ardently  beneath  their  shaggy 
brows,  lighted  an  artist's  soul,  he  felt  sure:  and  thus  it 
happened  that  he,  a  man  so  diffident  that  he  was  known 
throughout  the  fine  world  as  "  that  fellow  Corneille," 
unbent  his  reserve. 

"Your  praise  is  very  gratifying,"  he  said  pleasantly; 
"  yet  Richelieu  proclaimed  '  The  Cid '  immoral,  and  at 
his  bidding  the  academicians  condemned  it.  It  was, 
they  said,  the  apotheosis  of  passionate  love  at  the  ex 
pense  of  imperious  duties.  Alas !  I  am  not  sure  but 
that  they  were  right." 

"  Right  in  condemning  a  masterpiece ! "  expostulated 
Moliere,  every  nerve  quivering  with  emotion. 

"  Yes,  right,"  answered  the  poet,  his  face  tightening 
once  more  into  the  look  of  sternness  it  habitually  wore. 
"  The  drama  has  a  noble  purpose  to  fulfil — a  purpose 
to  be  accomplished  by  the  upholding  of  worthy  ideals. 
Our  stage  was,  as  you  have  justly  said,  in  vulgar  toils 
until  Jodelle  and  Hardy  sowed  the  seeds  of  a  national 
drama.  Those  seeds  have  barely  taken  root.  For  my 
part,  I  mean  to  do  all  within  my  power  to  nourish  them. 
In  Greece,  the  stage  was  an  institution  of  the  whole 
people.  Its  aims  were  lofty;  its  honours  sought  by  the 
noblest.  Such  should  be  its  state  in  France!  Our 
drama  should  be  truly  national!  Patriotism  should  in 
spire  every  worthy  play!  'The  Cid'  was  justly  con 
demned  by  the  Academy,  I  now  believe,  because,  in  a 
patriotic  drama,  love  should  have  a  slight  place,  or  none 
at  all.  Some  great  interest  of  the  State  should  be 
the  subject,  or  some  passion  more  manly  than  love;  as, 
for  instance,  ambition  or  vengeance.  If  fear  is  per 
mitted,  it  should  be  a  fear  less  puerile  than  that  in 
spired  by  the  loss  of  a  mistress.  Love  should  be  second 


168  FAME'S   PATHWAY 

in  rank  to  the  capital  passions,  if  the  dignity  of  the 
drama  is  to  be  upheld,  the  stage  restored  to  the  exalted 
place  it  held  in  Greece.  Through  tragedy  alone  may 
this  object  be  attained,  for  comedy  is  trivial  and  farce 
is  vulgar.  Although  I  have  written  comedies  such  as 
'  The  Liar/  I  mean  henceforth  to  devote  my  life  to  the 
nobler  cause  of  tragedy." 

Throughout  this  homily,  Moliere,  listening  breath 
lessly,  hung  upon  each  word  as  from  the  lips  of  an 
oracle.  "  Ah,  had  Madeleine  but  heard  that  noble  dis 
course,"  thought  he,  "  no  longer  would  she  oppose  the 
fulfilment  of  my  dreams."  Corneille's  words  seemed 
divinely  inspired.  He  could  have  kissed  the  hem  of 
his  garment. 

"  Master,"  he  cried  in  his  enthusiasm,  "  each  word 
you  have  spoken  rings  with  truth.  Pray  enroll  me  as 
your  humble  disciple,  for  I,  too,  shall  devote  my  life  to 
this  noble  cause.  Never  will  I  play  again  in  an  un 
worthy  play." 

Corneille  stopped  in  front  of  a  sombre  portal  and 
lifted  the  brass  knocker,  for,  talking  thus,  while  strolling 
through  the  darkened  streets,  he  had  reached  his  house. 
"  I  fear  I  must  leave  you,"  he  said,  putting  forth  his 
hand.  "If  my  words  have  inspired  you,  they  have  not 
been  in  vain.  Good-night,  my  young  friend.  You 
have  talent,  and  if  you  strive  hard  to  succeed  in  your 
chosen  calling,  your  future  is  secure." 

Moliere  seized  the  proffered  hand  and  pressed  it  to 
his  lips.  Countless  emotions  thrilled  his  heart  only  to 
perish  in  the  fear  that  any  words  he  might  utter  must 
prove  inadequate.  "  Master,  this  hour  with  you  has 
been  the  happiest  of  my  life ! "  he  stammered  forth, 
when  he  could  find  the  breath  to  speak. 


THE    SALLOW   LAWYER  169 

While  hastening  to  his  humble  lodgings,  he  longed  to 
cry  his  joy  aloud,  so  thrilled  was  he  with  hope  and 
promise  and  the  courage  to  do  battle  for  a  noble  cause. 
In  Paris  alone  was  victory  to  be  won.  "  There  fellows 
worse  than  I  succeed  in  being  deemed  of  worth,"  he 
repeated  to  himself  again  and  again,  while  picturing 
his  triumph  in  that  mighty  haunt  of  haggling  merchants, 
of  nobles,  cavaliers,  and  great  ladies;  that  Parnassus 
where  the  poet  and  the  artist  dwelt  and  fame  was  a  fair 
goddess  to  be  wooed  and  won.  In  his  exultation,  he 
imagined  the  Illustrious  Theatre  acknowledged  far  and 
wide  as  the  resort  of  wit  and  fashion;  the  drama  raised 
by  its  influence  to  an  exalted  state;  himself  the  first 
tragedian  in  the  realm — a  modern  Polus.  Ay,  even  a 
greater  triumph  he  foresaw,  for  had  he  not  written 
verses  Voiture  had  praised?  Why  should  not  he  be  a 
modern  Euripides  as  well,  and  add  his  garland  of 
tragedy  to  those  of  Hardy  and  Corneille — the  .2Eschylus 
and  Sophocles  of  France? 

It  was  a  fair  vision,  and  as  he  hurried  through  the 
cheerless  streets  so  rapidly  that  the  passers-by  mar 
velled  at  his  haste,  he  felt  as  if  he  were  flying  through 
the  joyous  air  astride  a  winged  steed.  In  fancy  he  saw 
afar  off  a  theatre  filled  from  pit  to  roof,  himself  upon  the 
stage  in  classic  garb,  the  four  walls  trembling  with 
applause. 

When  he  reached  the  squalid  house  where  he  and 
Madeleine  dwelt,  he  did  not  tell  her  the  half  of  all  that 
was  said  during  his  meeting  with  Corneille,  or  the 
quarter  of  all  he  thought,  for  he  felt  that  her  heart  was 
at  variance  with  his — that  she  would  have  him  strut  his 
life  out,  a  turkey  of  farce. 


CHAPTER  VIII 

PARIS  DEBONAIR! 

IN  play-loving  Rouen,  a  profitable  fortnight  passed 
speedily;  then  the  actors  bent  their  steps  toward  Paris, 
the  goal  of  their  ambitions.  Flushed  with  provincial 
success,  the  gold  of  Normandy  jingling  in  their  pockets, 
they  reached  the  capital  in  good  time,  not  a  mishap 
marring  the  journey. 

December  was  a  month  of  idleness,  the  work  on 
the  play-house  lagging.  When  the  carpenters  loitered, 
Moliere  chid  them  for  being  sluggards,  or  bent  his 
young  shoulders  to  the  work  of  carrying  deals.  At  last, 
a  rough  platform  was  built  at  one  end  of  the  dingy 
tennis-court,  and  a  stout  gallery,  to  hold  boxes  for  the 
quality,  along  the  three  remaining  sides.  Clusters  of 
tallow  dips  were  hung  from  the  ceiling,  and  curtains 
stretched  sidewise  on  the  stage,  in  lieu  of  wings.  A 
barrier  at  the  height  of  a  man's  elbow,  to  keep  the 
quarrelsome  in  the  pit  from  attacking  the  actors,  how 
ever  great  the  provocation,  completed  this  humble  play 
house. 

When  he  stood  at  last  upon  the  finished  stage, 
Moliere's  heart  beat  exultantly.  In  fancy,  he  saw  the 
empty  theatre  filled  with  eager  faces,  heard  hand-claps 
and  approving  shouts. 

To  the  fulfilment  of  this  dream,  there  was,  however, 
an  obstacle.  A  dissension  had  arisen  in  the  company 
regarding  the  first  offering — a  war  between  Melpomene 

170 


PARIS    DEBONAIR  171 

and  Thalia.  He,  perforce,  upheld  the  sombre  cause. 
Arrayed  with  him  was  Beys,  ready  with  a  tragedy  on 
which  the  ink  was  scarcely  dry.  Sensible  Madeleine 
captained  the  host  of  comedy.  Through  her  efforts,  an 
armistice  was  declared;  and  on  the  day  the  sluggish 
workmen  finally  laid  down  their  tools,  a  meeting  was 
called  at  her  house  to  arrange  the  terms  of  peace. 

Eager  to  hear  the  last  hammer's  blow,  Moliere  alone 
among  his  comrades  had  visited  the  play-house  that  day. 
No  more  playing  in  tap-rooms  and  granges,  he  thought, 
as  he  gazed  at  the  empty  pit  that  soon  would  teem  with 
rapscallion  humanity;  no  more  truckling  to  the  deni 
zens  of  fairs — that  is,  if  Madeleine's  sordid  spirit  could 
be  curbed. 

Oppressed  with  the  thought  that  he  and  she  were  at 
strife,  he  left  the  silent  theatre  to  wend  his  way  to  the 
fateful  meeting.  But  a  more  pressing  fear  than  her 
defection  drove  this  sadness  from  his  mind. 

The  tennis-court  stood  outside  the  walls  in  an  un- 
paved  faubourg;  the  December  rains  had  left  the  street 
a  sea  of  mud.  Knowing  that  coaches  would  surely 
founder  there,  he  bethought  him  of  his  father's  friend, 
Leonard  Aubry,  pavier  in  ordinary  to  the  king.  This 
good  man  should  make  the  approach  to  the  Illustrious 
Theatre  worthy  the  people  of  quality  its  fame  would 
attract.  His  sanguine  mind  heard  straightway  the  cries 
of  footmen  and  saw  the  naming  torches  of  the  link-boys. 

Dreaming  thus,  he  reached  the  towered  walls  of  Paris 
and  passed  beneath  the  porte  de  Nesle  to  the  quai  des 
Augustins.  Beside  him  flowed  the  murky  Seine,  alive 
with  river  craft.  In  the  stream  horsemen  were  water 
ing  their  steeds  belly  deep;  upon  the  sands  barges  lay 
stranded;  boatmen  were  chanting  merrily,  wherries 


172  FAME'S   PATHWAY 

passing  to  and  fro;  from  the  court-yard  of  the  long, 
grey  palace  of  the  Louvre  sounded  a  fanfare  of  trump 
ets,  a  roll  of  drums. 

The  day  was  waning,  and  he  hastened  on,  now  dodg 
ing  a  train  of  sumpter  mules,  now  jumping  from  be 
neath  the  hoofs  of  a  musketeer's  galloping  charger. 

Across  the  Pont  Neuf  flowed  a  ceaseless  stream  of 
humanity;  and  into  it  he  plunged,  one  hand  grasping 
his  wallet,  the  other  his  mantle.  It  was  a  throng  to 
delight  him:  every  rascal  in  Paris,  and  every  dupe; 
every  noise,  as  well,  even  to  the  cries  of  the  victims  of 
Carmeline,  the  tooth-puller.  Near  the  bronze  horse  of 
Henry  IV,  he  stopped  to  watch  the  antics  of  Orvietan, 
the  quack. 

Amid  bottled  snakes  and  stingless  vipers  stood  this 
arch  charlatan,  the  sleeves  of  his  cabalistic  gown  waving 
to  his  gestures,  his  raucous  voice  crying  the  merits  of 
his  opiates  and  balsams,  his  ointments  and  quint 
essences,  for  the  cure  of  every  ill.  When  the  quack's 
voice  failed  him,  nimble  mountebanks  tumbled  for  the 
merriment  of  the  crowd. 

Tiring  of  this  hocus-pocus,  Moliere  turned  to  watch 
the  coarse  tomfoolery  on  the  stage  of  Bary,  a  rival 
empiric — a  farce  for  the  people  such  as  Madeleine 
would  have  him  play,  an  she  had  her  will. 

It  recalled  the  day  when,  loitering  with  Chapelle  upon 
that  very  bridge,  he  had  envied  those  buffoons  their 
careless  calling.  To  wear  a  clown's  cap  and  bare  his 
back  to  the  beatings  of  comedy  had  been  his  idle  dream 
that  day.  His  yearnings  were  more  exalted  now;  for 
he  saw  himself  envied  by  Montfleury  and  Bellerose,  the 
foremost  actors  of  France.  "  Ah,  Madeleine,"  said  his 
heart,  "  why  do  you  oppose  my  ambition  ?  Is  Trinette 


PARIS    DEBONAIR  ,          173 

right?  Does  jealousy  inspire  you?  .  *.  .  No,  no, 
it  cannot  be !  "  and  ashamed  of  having  admitted  so  base 
a  thought,  he  hastened  on. 

The  bridge  was  alive  with  trickery;  the  air  rent  with 
the  cries  of  pedlars,  the  moaning  of  beggars.  To  a 
group  of  starvelings,  a  haggard  poet  was  reciting  a  libel 
on  the  cardinal  ruler  of  the  realm — a  Mazarinade. 

The  sight  of  the  gaunt  faces  and  ragged  shapes  about 
this  lampooner  made  Moliere's  heart  ache.  Into  the 
shrivelled  hand  of  a  baby  crying  on  its  mother's  dry 
breast,  he  thrust  a  copper;  then  lent  his  young  lungs  to 
the  cry  of  "  Down  with  Mazarin !  "  that  arose  from  the 
famished  listeners  to  the  pasquinade — a  cry  that  brought 
the  watch  in  hot  haste  to  beat  back  the  crowd  with  their 
halberds  and  drag  the  lean  poet  to  gaol  amid  hisses  and 
groans. 

Sickened  by  this  display  of  tyranny,  Moliere  saunt 
ered  toward  the  Pump  of  la  Samaritaine,  where  squatted 
chapmen,  balladists,  and  gazetteers.  There  sat  blind 
Philippot  the  Savoyard,  "  child  of  the  muses !  "  He 
joined  the  crowd  about  this  sightless  bard,  dropping  a 
coin  into  his  frayed  hat  when  he  sang : 

"Don't  forsake  the  Savoyard, 

With  his  songs  both  lewd  and  light. 
If  he  had  not  lived  so  hard, 
He  would  not  have  lost  his  sight." 

But  the  chimes  above  the  pump-house  were  pealing  a 
joyous  tune,  a  prelude  to  the  huge  clock's  striking  the 
hour  of  four,  so  he  hurried  on  into  a  maze  of  streets. 

In  the  rue  St.  Honore,  he  saw  the  house  where  he  had 
passed  his  youth,  with  its  sign  "  au  pavilion  des  singes." 
The  sight  of  the  monkeys  carved  on  the  corner  post 


174  FAME'S   PATHWAY 

made  him  shudder,  for  he  remembered  that,  among  the 
ancients,  those  mimetic  animals  had  symbolised  the  art 
of  comedy.  Were  they  an  omen  of  the  fate  in  store  for 
him?  he  wondered;  only  to  laugh  at  the  idea,  for  Made 
leine,  or  all  the  king's  men,  could  not  swerve  him  from 
his  exalted  purpose. 

In  passing,  he  gazed  at  the  windows  of  his  mother's 
room,  on  the  instant  recalling  her  pale,  wasted  face  as 
he  had  seen  it  last.  Vainly  his  heart  yearned  for  her 
unselfish  love. 

Hastening  through  the  rue  de  la  Tonnellerie,  where 
his  father's  crass  friends  dwelt,  he  drew  his  hat  over 
his  eyes,  lest  the  skinny,  crooked-nose  frippers  of  that 
street  should  point  the  finger  of  scorn  at  him,  the  prod 
igal,  the  outcast. 

Before  the  Church  of  St.  Eustache,  he  paused  to  gaze 
at  his  father's  new  house  in  the  arcade  of  the  market 
place.  Since  the  hour  when  he  had  been  turned  from 
its  door,  he  had  never  crossed  the  threshold.  At  the 
thought  of  his  apathetic  sisters  and  his  grinning  brother, 
he  smiled.  The  pottage  was  theirs  now — the  right  to 
make  the  king's  bed. 

Before  the  door  stood  a  gilded  sedan.  A  link-boy 
was  lighting  his  torch  with  flint  and  steel.  A  light 
glimmered,  too,  in  the  upholstery  shop,  and  he  pictured 
his  brother  bustling  to  and  fro  with  bolts  of  taffeta  and 
brocade  while  his  crafty  father  tempted  some  won- 
drously  peruked  grande  dame  with  obsequious  words 
such  as  these: 

"If  Madame  la  Comtesse  will  permit  the  suggestion, 
this  rose  brocade  is  more  coquettish  than  the  blue  of 
Madame  la  Marquise  de  Rambouillet's  salon.  If  Ma 
dame  la  Comtesse  will  pardon  the  indiscretion,  rose  is 


PARIS    DEBONAIR  175 

a  hue  far  more  delicate  than  blue.  Will  Madame  la 
Comtesse  deign  to  consider  it  ?  " 

The  shop  door  opened  and  his  cringing  father  bowed 
an  exalted  customer  to  her  chair.  As  he  bent  his 
bald  head  servilely  and  rubbed  his  grasping  hands  to 
gether,  even  the  lackey  bearing  the  lady's  lap-dog  eyed 
him  with  disdain.  Rather  than  share  the  base  life  of 
his  brother,  the  young  actor  felt  that  he  would  gladly 
tramp  his  life  out  behind  a  creaking  ox-cart,  ay,  even 
wither  in  the  stocks  beside  yon  drooping  criminals. 

Indeed,  he  was  no  Poquelin,  he  averred,  but  a  Cresse 
through  and  through — a  scion  of  his  mother's  house. 
Had  not  her  father  taken  him,  when  but  a  lad,  to  the 
pit  of  the  Hotel  de  Bourgogne;  had  he  not  called  down 
upon  his  grey  head  the  seven  vials  of  Poquelin  wrath? 

"  Do  you  wish  to  make  him  an  actor?  "  his  father  had 
growled,  whilst  he,  in  terror,  hid  behind  the  folds  of  his 
grandfather's  mantle. 

"  May  it  please  Heaven,"  vouchsafed  the  good  man, 
"  that  he  become  as  fine  an  actor  as  Bellerose." 

His  grandfather  had  been  an  upholsterer  too,  yet  he 
had  craved  other  things  than  sous  of  profit,  thought 
Moliere,  as  he  hastened  to  the  rue  Mauconseil.  Not 
twenty  steps  away  stood  the  Hotel  de  Bourgogne  to 
rekindle  every  longing  of  his  soul.  Two  soldiers 
brushed  aside  the  armed  porter  at  the  door.  To  follow 
was  a  temptation  he  could  not  withstand. 

Soft  voices  hummed  in  the  boxes;  the  rabble  in  the 
pit  laughed  and  cursed;  above  this  din  bellowed  Mont- 
fleury,  straining  his  fat  sides  till  the  perspiration  ran 
into  his  false  beard  in  streams.  The  walls  trembled  to 
his  fustian  until  the  candles  sputtered. 

"  Would  that  crazy  Cyrano  de  Bergerac  had  forbid- 


176  FAME'S   PATHWAY 

den  him  the  stage  for  ever/'  sighed  Moliere,  thinking  of 
the  day  when  the  eccentric  Gascon,  sniffing  rage  through 
his  bulbous  nose,  had  whipped  his  terrible  rapier  from 
its  sheath  to  defy  the  whole  pit,  and  forbid  Montfleury 
to  act  for  a  month,  a  mandate  the  player  was  con 
strained  to  obey. 

"  Since  that  rascal  has  grown  so  fat  that  he  cannot 
be  thoroughly  drubbed  in  one  day,"  cried  Cyrano,  "  he 
gives  himself  airs !  " 

"  Ah,  that  was  a  glorious  victory  for  art,"  thought 
Moliere,  "  yet  it  has  in  no  way  dimmed  Montfleury 's 
popularity  nor  his  conceit.  Verily,  his  hide  is  as  dense 
as  his  public.  Shall  I  ever  be  the  idol  of  the  crowd?  " 
he  wondered.  "  Not  if  I  must  follow  in  that  ranter's 
footsteps !  " 

The  curtains  hid  Montfleury  from  view.  In  the  pit, 
where  Moliere  stood,  a  nondescript  army  was  shouting, 
stamping,  and  sweltering  in  its  own  odours.  Having  no 
taste  for  the  loose  farce  to  follow  the  tragedy  as  its  an 
tithesis — or  antidote — he  left  the  foul-smelling  place. 

Soon  he  had  reached  the  Marais  quarter,  and  there 
almost  ran  upon  a  crowd  of  roisterers  coming  from  the 
theatre  du  Marais.  Lest  his  cloak  be  snatched,  he  hid 
in  a  doorway  till  only  the  echo  of  their  lewd  talk  re 
sounded  through  the  street;  venturing  forth,  he  fared 
on  with  his  eyes  alert,  for  the  Marais  quarter  was  the 
haunt  of  rogues,  as  well  as  of  poets  and  actors — a 
quarter  unsafe  for  a  man  alone  at  night,  or  for  a  woman 
at  any  time — the  Bohemia  of  that  day,  land  of  the  free 
and  home  of  the  benighted. 

When  he  reached  Madeleine's  door,  in  the  cul-de-sac 
de  Thorigny,  he  lifted  the  brass  knocker  and  rapped 
lustily.  From  within  came  the  sound  of  heated  voices. 


CHAPTER  IX 
KING  PETAUD'S  COURT 

IN  Madeleine's  house,  the  actors  and  actresses  of  the 
Illustrious  Theatre  awaited  their  young  comrade's  ar 
rival.  They  were  an  odd  company,  the  ladies  being 
mostly  the  gaudy  birds  of  a  shady  paradise,  and  their 
companions  a  vagabondish  lot  in  withering  frippery. 
The  flashiness  of  these  Jills  or  the  shabbiness  of  their 
Jacks  made  slight  difference,  however,  to  any  except 
Madeleine. 

Whilst  the  others  gibed  merrily,  she  sat  quietly  apart 
hemming  a  mob-cap.  Too  thoroughly  alive  to  the  ex 
actions  of  her  craft  not  to  realise  the  histrionic  short 
comings  of  those  laughing,  lolling  mates  of  hers,  she 
wondered  what  would  be  the  outcome  of  an  undertaking 
illustrious  thus  far  only  in  name.  Experience  cautioned 
her  to  forswear  the  venture  entirely:  yet  Moliere  had 
conceived  it,  had  set  his  heart  upon  it,  had  risked  his 
all;  and  just  as  her  fond  lips  had  sealed  their  approval 
of  it  a  score  of  times  since  the  enchanted  day  of  its  in 
ception,  she  knew  that  her  heart  would  carry  her  into 
any  new  folly  of  his — even  to  the  abetting  of  a  tragedy. 
Hoping  against  hope,  she  plied  her  needle  calmly;  the 
meanwhile,  her  comrades  grew  restless. 

"  A  full  hour  passed,  and  no  signs  of  Moliere ! " 
yawned  Clerin. 

"  Mayhap  he  has  been  waylaid  by  cut-throats,"  wailed 
Pinel. 

177 


178  FAME'S    PATHWAY 

But  Joseph  Bejart,  sprawling  on  the  bench  with  his 
face  to  the  fire,  knew  that  Moliere  was  merely  a  pro 
crastinating  youth  overgiven  to  dreaming. 

"  You  are  m-m-making  as  much  fuss  about  nothing 
as  a  c-c-crow  pecking  nuts  off  a  t-t-tree,"  he  grunted. 
"  Why  b-b-bother  about  the  lad  at  all?  " 

"  Indeed,"  said  Beys,  "  why  bother  ?  I  opine  that 
this  meeting  should  come  to  its  business." 

"  And  I  too,"  echoed  Clerin. 

Madeleine  laid  aside  her  sewing.  "  This  meeting 
having  been  called  for  the  purpose  of  deciding  the 
future  policy  of  our  organisation,"  she  answered  quietly, 
"  its  deliberations  concern  each  one  of  us." 

"  We  are  all  here  but  Moliere/'  said  Trinette,  to  try 
her. 

"Yes;  all  but  Moliere." 

"It  is  strange,"  shrugged  the  jade,  "that  one  so 
opposed  to  his  wishes  should  await  his  coming  so 
anxiously." 

Madeleine  did  not  resent  the  insinuation.  A  quiet 
smile  barely  disturbed  the  composure  of  her  face. 

Her  silence  permitted  litigious  Andre  Mareschal  to 
explode  a  petard  on  his  own  behalf.  Having  witnessed 
the  contract  that  had  bound  these  illustrious  players  to 
their  course,  this  shifty  advocate  in  Parliament  had  come 
at  their  bidding  this  day  to  unravel  legal  knots.  Al 
though  a  lawyer,  he  plied  the  trade  of  playwright  too, 
his  advice  being  given  freely  to  the  Illustrious  Theatre 
with  the  hope  that  it  would  afford  a  market  for  his 
plays. 

"  If  the  choice  of  a  drama  is  the  matter  in  hand," 
said  he,  producing  a  manuscript  from  the  bosom  of  his 
doublet  with  a  flourish,  "  '  The  Equitable  Judgment  of 


KING   PETAUD'S    COURT  179 

Charles  the  Bold,  Last  Duke  of  Burgundy/  my  latest 
tragedy,  which  I  hold  herewith  to  your  view,  is  a  meet 
offering." 

Beys  was  on  his  feet  in  an  instant,  waving  frantic 
ally  a  manuscript  of  his  own  penning.  "  I  am  the  poet 
of  the  troupe ! "  he  shouted ;  "  my  rights  are  para 
mount  !  " 

Mareschal's  attitude  was  forensic,  as  became  an  advo 
cate  in  Parliament.  Sweeping  a  skinny  finger  toward 
his  rival  in  a  gesture  of  disdain,  he  continued  calmly, 
"  My  plays  have  held  the  boards  of  both  the  Hotel  de 
Bourgogne  and  the  Theatre  du  Marais." 

The  fat  poet  snapped  back  his  answer,  "If  thy 
tragedies  were  worth  the  four  paws  of  a  dog,  they  would 
still  hold  those  boards !  " 

Surveying  Beys  with  contempt,  Mareschal  launched 
these  words  at  him :  "  Dedicated  to  none  other  than  His 
Eminence,  the  Cardinal  Due  de  Richelieu,  a  tragedy  of 
mine  had  the  distinction  of  being  presented  at  the 
Palais  Cardinal.  Never  will  I  give  place  to  a  wine- 
sack,  whose  plays  are  as  besotted  as  his  brain." 

"  A  wine-sack  am  I  ?  "  cried  Beys,  his  round  head  and 
his  round  paunch  both  quivering  with  rage.  "  May  the 
fire  of  St.  Anthony  burn  thee  for  a  numskull !  " 

"A  shovel  mocking  a  rake,"  laughed  Madelon  Ma- 
lingre,  to  shame  them. 

"  A  choice  between  a  lame  horse  and  a  blind  one," 
said  Genevieve  Bejart. 

"  Were  Moliere  here,"  sneered  Clerin,  "  they  would 
both  prove  greater  cowards  than  the  moon." 

He  was  thinking  of  the  time  when  the  lad  had  quelled 
a  similar  brawl  with  no  more  ado  than  a  threatening 
look  and  the  gentle  tapping  of  his  rapier's  hilt;  but  no 


180  FAME'S   PATHWAY 

one  with  energy  to  cow  the  warring  poets  being  there, 
they  shot  hate  from  their  eyes  and,  shaking  their  manu 
scripts  defiantly,  roared  the  maledictions  of  an  age  none 
too  refined,  till  Moliere's  knocking  resounded  on  the 
door.  Bejart  drew  the  latch. 

"  S-s-speak  of  a  wolf  and  you  s-s-spy  his  tail,"  he 
grunted,  as  his  young  comrade  entered  the  room. 

"  You  arrive  as  seasonably  as  a  fish  in  Lent,"  said 
Trinette,  edging  toward  him  and  smiling. 

Moliere,  who  had  heard  the  commotion  from  with 
out,  glanced  from  face  to  face  to  divine  the  cause.  In 
a  room  lighted  by  sputtering  candles  and  glimmering 
flames,  eleven  fellow-Thespians  were  gathered.  Two 
of  them  were  gesticulating  wildly ;  and  no  sooner  had  the 
door  closed,  than  their  voices  broke  forth  again.  "  Bard 
of  the  fish  mart!"  "Poet  of  the  gutters!"  "Thy 
tragedy  is  a  literary  pustule !  "  "  Thine  a  cancerated 
fester  of  odious  words !  " — were  the  expletives  that 
fell  upon  his  ears. 

"  Gentlemen !  "  he  cried,  "  gentlemen !  have  I  come  to 
the  court  of  King  Petaud,  where  every  one  is  master, 
where  commotion  reigns  ?  " 

"  You  have  come  to  a  court  of  dusty  feet,"  grunted 
Pinel. 

"  Where  two  rogues  are  preaching  their  own  saints," 
added  Clerin,  "  each  trying  to  convince  the  rest  of  us 
that  bladders  are  lanterns." 

Joseph  Bejart  showed  his  yellow  tusks  in  a  grin. 

"  In  p-p-plain  French,"  he  stammered,  "  each  of  these 
poetasters  has  a  t-t-tragedy  of  his  own  p-p-penning  he 
will  have  the  Illustrious  Theatre  enact." 

"  Therefore  each  sings  his  own  goat-song,"  laughed 
Moliere. 


KING   PETAUD'S    COURT  181 

The  rotund  poet  and  the  lean  poet  glared  defiance, 
but  their  tongues  were  shamed  into  silence.  Whilst 
their  comrades  roared  their  discomfiture,  the  one  reached 
for  a  fagot  that  lay  on  the  hearth,  the  other  for  a  tank 
ard.  Pinel  grasped  an  arm,  Clerin  seized  a  wrist,  lest 
a  genuine  tragedy  be  forthcoming. 

Seeing  Mareschal's  sparse  hair  bunched  out  like  the 
quills  of  an  angry  porcupine,  and  Beys's  round  face  a 
fiery  sun  of  rage,  Moliere's  mouth  puckered  in  a  smile. 

"  How  dense  you  are,  comrades,"  he  said,  with  an 
assumption  of  mock  gravity ;  "  do  you  not  see  that  if 
these  rogues  destroy  one  another  in  a  battle  royal,  the 
world  will  be  the  richer  by  two  poets  the  less?  Away, 
both  of  you !  Let  them  have  at  each  other." 

With  a  choking  cry  of  rage,  Beys  wrenched  his  arm 
from  Clerin's  grasp.  "  By  the  sacred  name  of  a  thou 
sand  thunders,"  he  shouted,  his  fagot  raised  threat 
eningly,  "  what  business  is  it  of  thine  whether  we 
quarrel  or  not?" 

"  Softly,  my  friend,  softly,"  said  the  young  actor, 
the  firmness  of  his  voice  halting  the  fat  poet's  steps. 
"  When  you  and  Mareschal  have  killed  each  other,  I, 
aspiring  to  be  a  poet  myself,  shall  monopolise  our  ef 
fusions.  Come,  have  at  each  other  and  make  short 
shrift  of  it!" 

Beys  was  not  slow  in  seeing  that  he  was  being  made 
ridiculous.  With  a  sheepish  look,  he  turned  toward 
Mareschal.  "  Comrade,"  he  said,  "  apparently  we  are 
a  pair  of  fools." 

A  faint  spot  of  colour  rose  on  Mareschal's  thin  cheek. 
"Ay,  Beys,"  he  sighed;  "every  man  has  a  fool  in  his 
sleeve." 

"  True,"  said  Moliere,  his  voice  assuming  a  more  se- 


182  FAME'S    PATHWAY 

rious  tone ;  "  therefore  let  mine  appear."  Unconsciously 
he  glanced  toward  Madeleine  with  eyes  that  told  her  he 
was  not  to  be  baffled.  "  Comrades,"  he  continued,  in  a 
manner  to  hold  the  attention  of  the  entire  room,  "  these 
worthy  mates  of  ours  fell  out  over  the  choice  of  a  play. 
Has  the  policy  of  our  undertaking  been  decided  in  my 
absence  ?  " 

"  N-n-nay,  it  hath  not,"  grunted  Bejart;  "though  I 
was  of  a  mind  to  have  it  so,  seeing  you  took  four  roads 
to  get  here." 

Much  in  earnest  now,  Moliere  seated  himself.  Tri- 
nette  stealthily  drew  her  chair  beside  him. 

"  Of  prime  importance,"  he  went  on,  "  is  the  adoption 
of  a  policy.  Unless  we  are  united,  we  shall  surely 
fail." 

"  Well  said,  Moliere,  well  said,"  purred  Trinette 
softly  when  he  paused. 

For  an  instant  he  gazed  into  her  dark,  bewitching 
face  with  a  kind  of  fascination;  then  a  grieved  look  in 
Madeleine's  eyes  made  him  rise  to  his  feet  suddenly. 
"  On  the  one  hand,"  he  continued,  "  are  those  who  would 
make  of  our  venture  a  theatre  of  buffoons ;  on  the  other, 
stand  those  who,  like  myself,  have  pledged  their  hearts 
to  a  noble  cause,  who  believe  that  our  enterprise  should 
be  illustrious  '  in  deed  as  well  as  in  name/  " 

"  Th-th-thou  hast  caught  the  magpie  in  her  nest !  " 
stuttered  Bejart. 

Trinette's  eyes  shone,  her  bosom  swelled.  "  Thou 
hast  unfurled  the  true  banner ! "  she  cried,  with  a  show 
of  fine  white  teeth. 

Madeleine  saw  her  glance  at  him  through  lowered 
lids,  saw  her  dark  eyes  gleam.  With  a  sudden  ache  at 
her  heart,  she  arose  to  speak.  "  These  ideals  I  approve 


KING    PETAUD'S    COURT  183 

heartily/'  she  said ;  "  yet  as  one  who  has  served  her 
apprenticeship  upon  the  stage,  I  know  its  conditions 
better  perhaps  than  most  of  you.  We  are  a  band  of  un 
known  players,  remember,  and  the  royal  troupe  has  been 
granted  privileges  of  which  it  is  exceeding  jealous. 
Should  we  play  tragedy,  we  cannot  essay  the  unprinted 
plays  of  Corneille  or  even  those  of  Rotrou;  for  the 
royal  actors  would  prevent  us.  In  plays  of  lighter  vein, 
we  have  proved  our  worth.  Let  us  begin  simply  and 
unostentatiously.  When  we  have  won  a  following,  then 
let  the  banner  of  tragedy  be  unfurled." 

"  Battles  are  not  won  by  cowardice,"  broke  in  Tri- 
nette,  in  scorn  of  her. 

Urged  by  his  faith  in  the  justice  of  his  cause, 
Moliere  upheld  it,  the  words  of  Corneille  echoing  in  his 
ears  as  an  inspiration.  "  The  stage  has  a  noble  purpose 
to  fulfil !  "  he  cried.  "  It  should  be  an  institution  of 
the  whole  people,  as  it  was  in  Greece.  Let  the  dramas 
we  present  be  truly  national,  tragedies  with  patriotism 
for  the  theme,  with  love  a  subordinate  issue." 

"  Such  as  '  The  Equitable  Judgment  of  Charles  the 
Bold,' "  interrupted  Mareschal,  before  Beys  could 
protest. 

"A  worthy  subject!"  answered  Moliere.  "Mayhap 
it  is  the  play  we  seek." 

Madeleine  had  risen  too,  and  the  pair  stood  facing 
each  other,  each  seeking  success  for  the  enterprise,  each 
longing  for  the  other's  succour  and  approval. 

"  Our  theatre  stands  in  a  neighbourhood,"  said  she, 
"  where  petty  shopkeepers,  boatmen,  and  muleteers  will 
be  our  chief  patrons.  Remember  the  proverb,  '  The 
more  fools  you  are  with,  the  more  you  want  to  laugh.' " 
She  paused  to  watch  the  effect. 


184  FAME'S    PATHWAY 

"  'T  is  but  begging  the  question,"  answered  Moliere 
hotly.  In  his  sense  of  isolation,  any  words  to  spur  him 
on  were  welcome ;  for  the  thought  that  he  and  she  were 
at  odds  rent  his  heart. 

Stealing  toward  him,  Trinette  whispered,  loud  enough 
for  Madeleine  to  hear :  "  Her  opposition  is  too  trans 
parent,  Moliere.  She  would  have  us  play  comedy  lest 
she  be  eclipsed  in  tragedy." 

Though  Madeleine  tried  to  restrain  him  with  an  ap 
pealing  gesture,  he  turned  to  Mareschal  with  cheeks 
aflame,  and  asked :  "  Does  not  our  contract  state  that, 
in  all  matters  in  dispute,  the  troupe  shall  decide  by  a 
majority  of  its  voices?  " 

"  It  is  so  stated  in  the  document,"  answered  Mare 
schal,  with  much  gravity. 

"  Then  shall  we  vote  upon  this  question ! "  cried 
Moliere. 

Trinette  gave  a  little  gasp  of  satisfaction  and  made 
quick  to  seize  an  advantage.  "  Is  it  not  meet  that 
Bejart  and  Clerin  be  heard?  "  she  asked.  "  They,  like 
you,  have  the  right  to  play  the  role  of  hero.  If  they  are 
content  to  be  buffoons,  is  it  seemly  for  you  to  stand  in 
the  way  of  Madeleine?  According  to  the  contract,  she 
may  select  the  roles  that  please  her.  If  comedy  suits 
her  talents  best,  she  is  surely  within  her  rights  in 
choosing  it." 

These  subtle  words  had  their  effect. 

"  Nay,  I  '11  not  gainsay  my  rights,"  said  Clerin  tartly. 

Having  an  actor's  vanity,  Bejart,  too,  forsook  his 
sister's  cause.  "  N-n-nor  will  I  gainsay  mine,"  he 
averred ;  "  t-t-tragedy  being  my  forte,  an  I  know  my 
talents." 

Abetted  tKus;  Moliere  was  led  to  believe  in  the  justice 


KING    PETAUD'S    COURT  185 

of  his  course.  "If  our  legal  friend  will  put  the  ques 
tion,"  he  said  to  Mareschal,  "  this  matter  may  be 
brought  to  a  head." 

Throughout  this  argument,  Madeleine  had  listened 
silently.  Every  poisoned  word  Trinette  hurled  at  her 
hardened  her  heart,  yet  not  so  bitterly  but  that  she  pitied 
Moliere  while  pitying  herself.  It  was  no  doubt  a  trying 
place  for  him,  and  she  had  helped  to  lead  him  there  by 
countenancing  this  hot-headed  scheme  of  his  to  elevate 
the  stage.  Against  her  better  judgment  she  had  em 
barked  with  him  in  this  frail  craft  of  his  fancy;  and 
against  the  promptings  of  her  heart  she  had  accepted  his 
love  because  it  was  the  thing  she  craved  above  all  else. 
Now  that  it  was  fast  slipping  from  her  grasp,  she  found 
herself  condoning  him.  He  was  so  young  and  inexperi 
enced,  his  enthusiasm  was  so  unbounded,  that  she  could 
not  justly  blame  him  for  upholding  valiantly  his  ideals, 
or  even  for  falling  a  prey  to  the  wiles  of  an  unscrupulous 
girl.  Perhaps,  if  she  entered  heart  and  soul  into  his 
plan,  all  would  still  be  well,  and  his  love  quench  the 
jealous  fires  that  seared  her  heart;  for  she  stood  there 
baffled  and  wretched,  yet  fully  aware  that  she  was 
fighting  for  her  happiness  and  for  his  success.  To 
undo  in  Moliere's  mind  the  harm  Trinette's  chicanery  had 
wrought,  seemed  her  only  course;  for  rather  than  let 
him  believe  that  she  opposed  him  for  her  own  base  ends, 
she  was  prepared  to  humble  herself  before  her  enemy. 
Resourceful  though  she  knew  herself  to  be,  she  felt 
strangely  helpless;  and  when  Moliere  called  on  Mare 
schal  to  put  the  question,  she  interrupted  him  almost  be 
fore  he  could  finish  his  sentence. 

"  One  word,  comrades,  ere  you  vote.  I  have  upheld 
a  cautious  policy  because  I  believe  that  the  way  to  sue- 


186  FAME'S   PATHWAY 

cess  is  long;  but  I  cannot  let  dissension  mar  our  under 
taking.  Tragedy  is  manifestly  our  ideal,  let  tragedy 
be  our  policy  too;  for  I  hold  with  Moliere  in  believing 
it  to  be  a  nobler  art  than  comedy.  I  pray  that  all  here 
join  with  me  in  making  the  acceptance  of  this  policy 
unanimous." 

A  murmur  of  approval  greeted  these  words.  Tri- 
nette  saw  their  import  and  bit  her  lip  angrily.  Moliere 
said  nothing,  but  stood  looking  steadfastly  at  Made 
leine;  and  it  seemed  to  him  that  the  darkness  which  had 
threatened  his  life  was  rolling  away.  He  longed  to 
throw  himself  at  her  feet  and  crave  pardon  for  having 
doubted  her;  and  when  Trinette  whispered  that  he  had 
her  to  thank  for  his  triumph,  he  left  the  hussy  without 
a  word  and  went  toward  Madeleine. 

"  Dearest,"  he  said,  "  my  heart  is  in  this  enterprise, 
and  you  have  made  possible  its  fulfilment."  There, 
before  all  his  comrades,  he  kissed  her. 

Madeleine  gave  back  the  kiss,  clung  to  him  and  could 
have  sobbed  with  joy  for  new  happiness.  She 
seemed  not  to  see  the  grinning  faces  of  her  comrades, 
nor  hear  their  laughter;  for  the  stifling  room  had  van 
ished,  and  in  its  place  was  an  island  dense  with  beauty 
and  the  breath  of  flowers.  On  water  burnished  by  the 
sun,  aspens  and  willows  trailed  their  dark  shadows;  the 
lily  in  the  reeds  was  white ;  the  skylark  in  the  blue  above, 
all  song.  Indeed,  so  real  to  her  was  that  sweet  vision 
that  she  heeded  not  the  droning  voice  of  Mareschal. 

"  Since  tragedy  is  the  unanimous  policy  of  the  Illus 
trious  Theatre,"  said  he,  "  let  the  choice  of  a  play  be 
unanimous  likewise,  for  I  hold  'The  Equitable  Judg 
ment  of  Charles  the  Bold '  to  be  a  fit  offering." 

In  an  instant  Beys  was  on  his  feet  and  the  wrangling 


KING   PETAUD'S    COURT  187 

began  anew.  Madeleine's  awakening  was  ruder,  though, 
than  it  had  been  that  day  upon  the  enchanted  isle,  for, 
instead  of  the  plashing  of  oars  or  the  tinkling  of  a  lute, 
there  was  a  look  of  unconquerable  hate  in  Trinette's 
eyes  to  vex  her  from  her  dream  of  paradise. 


CHAPTER  X 

GRIEFS    AND    CONSOLATIONS 

READIER  of  tongue  than  Beys,  and  more  persistent, 
Mareschal  was  able  to  force  the  acceptance  of  "  The 
Equitable  Judgment  of  Charles  the  Bold,  Last  Duke 
of  Burgundy."  The  allotment  of  parts,  however,  was 
a  more  contentious  matter,  Clerin,  Bejart,  and  Moliere 
each  upholding  strenuously  his  right  to  the  title  role. 
With  characteristic  tact,  Madeleine  suggested  a  settle 
ment  of  the  strife  by  lot.  In  the  drawing,  the  coveted 
chance  fell  to  Moliere. 

To  play  a  character  truly  national  in  a  tragedy  with 
patriotism  for  its  theme  appeared  to  him  the  realisation 
of  his  most  cherished  dreams;  and  he  vowed  that  he 
would  make  Charles  the  Bold  a  prince  possessed  of 
both  dignity  and  grace,  in  short,  a  logical  human  being. 
Madeleine  feared  that  the  pit  would  demand  a  strut 
ting,  ranting  hector  such  as  Montfleury  would  enact, 
but  said  not  a  word,  having  resolved  never  to  oppose 
Moliere's  wishes  again.  Only  in  the  school  of  experi 
ence  would  he  learn  his  lesson;  and  she  prayed  that  it 
might  not  be  too  bitter. 

The  rehearsals  were  conducted  amid  grumblings  and 
heart-burnings,  those  with  notable  lines  to  speak  being 
subjected  to  captious  criticism  by  their  less  fortunate 
mates.  Moliere  was  severely  slated ;  for,  like  the  public, 
his  comrades  were  unused  to  naturalism.  Refusing  to 
rant,  he  read  his  lines  unaffectedly,  thereby  enraging 
Mareschal,  the  author. 

188 


GRIEFS   AND    CONSOLATIONS        189 

"  No  hero  would  speak  in  a  manner  so  commonplace. 
Man,  thou  art  destroying  the  rhythm  of  my  best 
verses ! " 

"  The  part  has  fallen  to  me  by  lot,"  Moliere  an 
swered,  with  much  dignity.  "  I  will  play  it  as  I  con 
ceive  it." 

"  And  ruin  my  tragedy !  "  moaned  Mareschal.  "  You 
are  an  ignoramus  to  recite  as  you  talk.  Do  you  not 
know  that  you  should  roar  your  verses  ?  " 

"  I  know  that  when  you  paint  men  you  must  paint 
from  nature." 

Seeing  it  futile  to  argue  further  with  one  whose  brain 
was  so  dense,  Mareschal  turned  upon  his  heel. 

Those  to  whom  inconsequential  roles  had  fallen  re 
solved  to  outdo  Montfleury  in  ranting  with  the  hope  that 
their  bellowing  would  allay  Moliere's  shortcomings. 
Trinette  Desurlis,  however,  upheld  the  young  player's 
art  and  thereby  called  down  upon  herself  the  curses 
of  her  comrades.  A  martyr  to  his  cause,  she  sought  to 
win  his  sympathy,  while  he,  intent  upon  playing  Charles 
the  Bold,  paid  so  little  heed  to  her  sighs  that  her  long 
ing  to  ensnare  him  became  an  absorbing  passion. 

Divining  Trinette's  artifices,  Madeleine  wisely  held 
her  own  counsel;  but  when  it  became  a  question  of  fur 
ther  expenditure  of  the  company's  scanty  means,  her 
saving  heart  forced  her  to  protest. 

Bent  upon  having  the  street  before  the  theatre  paved, 
Moliere  summoned  his  father's  friend,  Leonard  Aubry, 
pavier  to  the  king.  "A  pavement  twenty  fathoms  in 
length  by  three  in  width,"  he  asked,  "  what  price,  good 
Monsieur  Aubry  ?  " 

"  Three  hundred  livres,"  said  the  pavier,  after  much 
figuring. 


190  FAME'S   PATHWAY 

'  'T  is  two  months'  rent  of  our  play-house/'  urged 
Madeleine.  "  Let  us  wait  until  our  enterprise  is  fairly 
launched." 

"  In  the  meantime,"  wailed  Moliere,  "  coaches  will 
founder!  The  name  of  the  Illustrious  Theatre  will  be 
anathema !  " 

"  Yet  t-t-three  hundred  livres  is  an  ungodly  sum  to  pay 
for  p-p-paving  a  street/'  stammered  Bejart. 

The  pavier,  to  whom  the  stutterer's  remark  was  ad 
dressed,  was  as  genial  and  benign  as  on  the  day  when  he 
had  taken  Moliere's  part  against  his  father.  His  son, 
who  accompanied  him,  a  precocious  lad  in  his  teens,  cast 
fond  glances  at  Madeleine's  sister  Genevieve,  but  the 
good  man's  eyes  were  blinded  to  this  adolescent  ardour 
by  a  wish  to  aid  these  humble  actors.  Hemming  and 
hawing,  he  figured  on  a  slip  of  paper  until  the  twenty 
fathoms  were  reduced  to  twelve  and  the  price  to  two 
hundred  livres. 

"  But  the  payment  ?  "  queried  Madeleine. 

"  The  payment,  my  fair  lady,  may  be  deferred,"  said 
Leonard  Aubry,  bending  his  fat  body  in  a  flattering 
bow,  "  until  your  charms  have  brought  all  Paris  to  your 
play-house.  Shall  we  say  one-half  on  Candlemas  Day, 
the  other  in  mid-Lent  ?  " 

"  Most   equitable   terms,"   whispered    Moliere. 

"  Candlemas  Day,"  answered  Madeleine,  "  is  but 
twelve  weeks  hence." 

"  Once  our  theatre  is  opened,"  argued  Moliere,  in  an 
undertone,  "money  will  flow  into  its  coffers.  More 
over,  we  have  saved  from  our  profits  at  Rouen  a  sum 
sufficient  to  repay  M.  Chapelle  for  the  loan  he  thrust 
Tipon  us.  If,  at  the  outset,  the  receipts  of  our  theatre 
do  not  reach  our  expectations,  Chapelle  may  wait." 


GRIEFS   AND    CONSOLATIONS        191 

Madeleine  recalled  the  morning  at  Poissy  when  she 
had  argued  so  persistently  to  induce  Moliere's  acceptance 
of  this  very  loan.  "  What  a  change  in  his  moral  atti 
tude  two  short  months  have  wrought !  "  she  thought ; 
yet  she  acquiesced  in  his  desires  in  the  hope  of  proving 
to  him  that  her  affection  was  steadfast.  Moreover,  she 
had  been  concocting  a  scheme  of  her  own  for  the  raising 
of  funds,  a  purchaser  having  been  found  for  her  house, 
the  one  tangible  asset  she  possessed.  The  negotiations, 
however,  had  been  conducted  with  great  secrecy,  lest 
Moliere  should  discover  her  intent. 

"  If  you  wish  this  pavement,  dearest,"  she  whis 
pered,  "  all  my  objections  vanish;  for  you  are  the  heart 
and  soul  of  our  undertaking." 

Pressing  her  hand  fondly,  he  plunged  straightway  into 
the  negotiations.  "  To-day  is  the  twenty-eighth  of  De 
cember,"  he  said  to  Aubry.  "  The  street  must  be  ready 
on  New  Year's  Day." 

"  A  difficult  task,"  answered  the  pavier ;  "  yet  it  shall 
be  accomplished." 

Notaries  were  summoned  forthwith  and  a  contract 
drawn  whereby  Aubry  agreed — weather  permitting — to 
commence  work  on  the  morrow  and  deliver  the  street 
before  the  Illustrious  Theatre  on  the  day  decided  upon, 
paved  in  a  manner  to  permit  coaches  to  reach  the  door 
easily. 

When  the  document  had  been  signed,  sealed,  and  de 
livered,  the  pavier  turned  to  Madeleine  and  said,  for 
her  ears  alone :  "  The  loss  of  two  hundred  livres  will 
not  ruin  me;  so  you  need  not  fear  that  I  shall  press  my 
claim  too  severely.  I  have  a  liking  for  this  lad  '  Mo 
liere,'  as  you  call  him.  Had  his  father  followed  my  ad 
vice,  he  would  have  been  treated  with  more  beneficence." 


192  FAME'S   PATHWAY 

Madeleine  turned  on  him  a  face  filled  with  gratitude, 
such  words  from  a  man  of  his  intolerant  class  having 
touched  her  deeply.  "  You  are  kind  to  him,  monsieur. 
I  thank  you  from  the  bottom  of  my  heart." 

"  Palsanguienne !  "  laughed  the  pavier,  patting  her 
cheek  benignly,  "  that  lad  is  all  in  the  clouds." 

"  True,"  said  Madeleine,  sadly.  "  My  task  is  to  break 
his  fall  when  he  tumbles  to  this  hard  earth." 

Leonard  Aubry  looked  long  into  her  candid  blue  eyes. 
"  You  are  a  good  girl,  Madeleine  Bej  art.  When  you 
have  need  of  a  friend,  come  to  me." 

"  I  will,  monsieur,"  Madeleine  replied,  raising  her 
lips  for  him  to  kiss. 

Seeing  a  grin  on  his  son's  face,  the  pavier  blushed  to 
the  roots  of  his  grey  hair. 

"  You  young  rascal,"  he  cried,  "  when  you  are  my  age, 
you  may  kiss  a  pretty  girl  without  having  to  be  shriven 
for  it !  " 

"  Sacrebleu,  I  '11  not  wait  till  then !  "  laughed  the 
youth,  throwing  his  arms  about  Genevieve  Bej  art  with 
out  more  ado;  but  before  he  could  press  his  lips  to  her 
reddening  cheek,  she  boxed  his  ear  soundly  and,  during 
the  laughter  that  followed,  fled  precipitately  from  his 
embrace. 

"  Young  man,"  said  Aubry,  seizing  the  very  ear  Gene 
vieve  had  boxed,  "  't  is  high  time  I  led  you  out  of  temp 
tation's  way !  " 

When  the  pavier  and  his  ardent  son  had  departed,  the 
actors  voted  them  a  likely  pair,  and  still  laughing  at  the 
comic  exit  they  had  made,  followed  them  in  groups  of 
twos  and  threes. 

"A  stroll  ere  the  hour  of  rehearsal,  Moliere,"  said 
Trinette,  on  the  threshold.  "  We  may  pass  through  the 


galleries  of  the  Place  Royale  on  the  way  to  the  theatre. 
The  route  is  roundabout,  but  it  is  delectable." 

He  met  her  advances  coldly.  "  Nay,  Trinette,"  he 
said,  "  I  must  run  through  my  part." 

"  And  strive  to  forget  the  fond  kiss  Madeleine  be 
stowed  upon  that  greasy  pavier ! "  With  this  she 
laughed  and  slammed  the  door. 

Madeleine  had  left  the  room  in  search  of  her  sewing. 
She  found  him  sitting  morosely  with  his  face  between 
his  hands.  Tiptoeing  to  his  side,  she  kissed  his  forehead 
with  the  hope  of  pleasing  him. 

"  You  are  promiscuous  with  your  kisses  to-day,"  he 
said,  coldly,  without  looking  up. 

Cruelly  hurt,  she  left  him,  and  seating  herself  by  the 
fire,  began  to  sew  in  silence.  While  her  hand  moved  to 
and  fro  with  stitches,  her  heart  beat  dejectedly.  She 
felt  she  had  not  merited  the  rebuff. 

Moliere  felt  it  too,  yet  the  realisation  that  he  was  the 
culprit  only  made  him  the  more  sullen.  Love,  long  a 
matter  of  course,  now  suddenly  was  alight,  not  in  glory 
but  in  devilry;  for,  while  he  sat  meditating,  phantas- 
magorial  faces  to  taunt  him  crowded  through  a  brain 
weary  with  worry  and  endeavour:  Modene,  galloping 
in  the  dust  of  a  grandee's  carriage  and  smiling  in  scorn 
of  him;  village  rakes  leering  at  Madeleine;  the  gallants 
of  Rouen  combing  their  wigs  and  mocking  him;  Tri- 
nette  Desurlis  bewitching  him  with  her  tempting 
glances;  yet  hatefulest  of  all  seemed  his  own  moody 
self  repulsing  the  tender  caress  of  one  who  had  given 
him  her  love.  Why  did  he  crave  a  thousand  things  he 
could  never  attain  ?  Why  did  the  sight  of  a  fat  burgher 
kissing  this  gentle,  helpful  Madeleine  fire  him  with  un 
reasoning  distrust?  If  he  were  not  a  churl,  he  would 


194  FAME'S   PATHWAY 

throw  himself  at  her  feet  and  crave  her  pardon:  but 
into  his  dreams  came  a  longing  for  some  one  modest  and 
pure,  whose  love  was  given  first  and  wholly  to  him;  so 
he  sat  there  sulkily  sighing  for  the  stars,  yet  feeling 
that  in  all  conscience  he  should  be  content  like  other  mor 
tals  with  his  lot. 

Madeleine's  dowdy  mother  came  into  the  room  with 
her  baby  in  her  arms,  and  there  was  an  end  to  the 
malignant  silence,  for  she  began  to  prate  of  the  be 
nignity  of  her  departed  lord,  until  crocodile's  tears 
bathed  her  hairy  face  freely.  Unable  to  forget  how  fre 
quently  the  late  court  crier  had  been  berated  by  her 
mother  when  alive  for  a  lazy  lout  unable  to  support  his 
wife  and  children,  Madeleine  marvelled  that  she  had 
sprung  from  a  source  so  turbid,  yet  loved  the  bereaved 
Xanthippe  because  she  was  her  mother. 

Toward  the  widow's  lament,  Moliere  maintained  a 
policy  of  scornful  silence.  Her  baby  seemed  to  him  to 
share  his  distaste.  Instead  of  echoing  her  mother's 
tears,  she  clutched  her  sleeve  during  the  gyrations  of 
grief  and  gazed  at  him  knowingly  with  her  baby  eyes. 

A  chubby  child  of  a  year's  growth,  this  little  Armande 
Be j  art  had  already  a  mouth  straight  and  large  enough 
to  indicate  a  will  of  her  own,  and  a  glance  so  fascinating 
that  he  begged  permission  to  hold  her  in  his  arms. 

"  Trust  my  darling  to  thee !  "  stormed  Marie  Herve, 
the  sound  of  his  voice  turning  her  grief  to  rage,  "  a 
spendthrift ! — a  prodigal !  " 

"  Mother !  mother !  "  cried  Madeleine,  in  protest. 

"  Ay,  a  spendthrift  and  a  ne'er-do-weel !  "  shouted  the 
virago,  her  little  pig-like  eyes  flashing  hate  from  their 
fat  sockets.  "  His  own  father  has  cast  him  off !  Now 
you  must  needs  support  him !  Had  you  not  become  in- 


GRIEFS   AND    CONSOLATIONS         195 

fatuated  by  his  worthless  dreams  of  glory,  you  might 
have  found  a  protector  at  court." 

Madeleine  grew  white  and  rose  to  her  feet.  "  Not 
another  word,  mother,"  she  said. 

But  Marie  Herve  heeded  not  the  look  of  pained  anger 
blazing  in  her  eyes.  "  Ah,  you  think  I  do  not  know," 
she  screeched,  "  that  you  have  sold  the  very  house  over 
your  head  for  money  to  abet  this  Moliere's  crack-brained 
enterprise.  If  ever  you  attempt  to  sell  my  house  in  the 
rue  de  la  Perle " 

Madeleine  interrupted  her  before  she  could  finish  the 
sentence.  "  Silence,  mother !  My  affairs  concern  me 
alone." 

Marie  Herve  caught  at  her  words.  "  Yes,  browbeat 
me.  Such  is  the  gratitude  of  children." 

"  Mother,"  Madeleine  entreated,  "  you  do  not  under 
stand." 

"  I  know  you  are  an  undutiful  child — a  wanton  who 
has  thrown  her  life  away  upon  a  shiftless  simpleton." 

Up  and  down  the  room  Marie  Herve  raged,  her 
splenetic  nature  lashed  to  the  resentment  of  imaginary 
wrongs,  now  topped  by  the  presence  under  her  daugh 
ter's  roof  of  the  man  she  felt  to  be  the  undoing  of  the 
family  fortunes.  Moliere  stood  aghast  before  her 
anger,  Madeleine  seeking  in  vain  to  calm  her.  Ex 
hausted  of  breath,  she  departed  at  last,  her  baby  still 
placidly  clutching  her  sleeve  and  cooing.  When  she 
had  gone,  Moliere  and  the  girl  stood  watching  each 
other  with  pleading  eyes,  each  waiting  for  the  other  to 
speak. 

He  pitied  her  deeply.  Every  word  the  termagant 
had  flung  at  her  must  have  hurt  her  bitterly;  moreover, 
the  thought  that  he,  too,  had  injured  her,  brought  shame 


196  FAME'S   PATHWAY 

to  his  heart.  Only  his  own  dulness  had  prevented  him 
from  realising  the  depth  of  her  love  for  him — a  love 
that  had  prompted  her  to  sell  the  roof  from  over  her 
head  lest  the  enterprise  on  which  he  had  set  his  heart 
should  fail.  He  feared  it  was  too  late  to  crave  pardon 
for  his  cruel  rebuff  of  her;  yet,  perhaps,  if  he  caught 
her  in  his  arms,  her  tenderness  would  burn  anew  and 
destroy  the  unreasoning  longings  of  his  heart.  He  made 
a  movement  toward  her.  She  seemed  to  divine  his 
intent. 

"  Do  not  kiss  me  from  pity,"  she  said,  with  an  appeal 
ing  gesture. 

"  No,  Madeleine  dear,  it  is  from  shame,"  he  answered, 
in  a  tone  of  entreaty.  "  My  cruelty  was  inspired  by 
hateful  thoughts  I  dare  not  repeat." 

She  placed  her  hand  upon  his  shoulder  and  stood 
looking  at  him  with  eyes  full  of  yearning.  "  You  need 
not  repeat  them,  dear,"  she  said,  "  for  I  read  them  at  the 
moment  of  the  thinking." 

"  When  I  dared  not  acknowledge  them  to  myself !  "  he 
exclaimed  in  astonishment. 

A  faint  sigh  came  from  her  lips.  "  I  wish  I  had  not 
the  gift  of  divining  your  thoughts;  for,  when  I  know 
your  love  is  afar  off,  I  am  deeply  hurt." 

"  Madeleine,"  he  cried,  in  vindication,  "  if  my  heart 
has  ever  strayed,  it  shall  not  again !  " 

"  Promise  not  rashly,"  she  said.  "  Even  now,  when 
out  of  gratitude  I  kissed  Monsieur  Aubry,  your  brow 
darkened  and  your  heart  turned  from  me.  Fie,  Moliere ! 
Fie,  for  shame !  " 

Beneath  a  flood  of  golden  hair,  he  saw  her  pale  and 
beautiful,  a  faint  smile  on  her  curving  lips.  His  head 
fell  forward  on  his  breast.  "  The  thought  that  you 


GRIEFS   AND   CONSOLATIONS        197 

had  ever  loved  any  one  but  me  was  maddening/'  he 
answered,  in  a  voice  of  mingled  apology  and  appeal. 

He  felt  her  hand  stealing  into  his.  Her  voice  was 
tremulous.  "  And  yet  that  day  upon  the  magic  isle, 
when  I  told  you  the  story  of  the  past,  you  vowed  that  the 
past  was  dead.  '  Think,  dear,  of  the  future/  were  the 
words  you  whispered  furtively,  and  I  believed  in  you." 

"  And  now  you  doubt  me ! "  he  exclaimed,  in  a  tone  of 
reproach. 

The  sunlight  had  gone,  but  in  the  dusk  he  saw  her 
tender  eyes  fixed  entreatingly  upon  him.  "  No,  Moliere ; 
I  understand  you,"  she  said,  gazing  at  him  long  and 
curiously.  "  There  is  cause  for  my  misgivings." 

"  If  you  mean  Trinette  — "  he  said,  turning  his  eyes 
from  her. 

The  hand  still  holding  his  was  cold.  She  drew  it  back 
quickly,  and  when  she  spoke  there  was  bitterness  in  her 
voice :  "  Ever  since  the  day  you  kissed  her  in  my  gar 
den  she  has  pursued  you." 

"  So  my  lady  is  j  ealous !  "  he  laughed.  "  That  takes 
a  great  load  of  shame  from  my  heart,  for  I  have  been 
jealous,  too,  ever  since  the  day  I  first  beheld  you.  No 
longer  need  I  reproach  myself  for  hating  him  who 
once " 

"  Hush,  lad,"  she  said,  cutting  short  his  words  lest 
they  wound  her  too  deeply.  "  Never  more  shall  he  darken 
your  life  or  mine."  She  caught  his  face  between  her 
trembling  hands.  The  look  into  his  eyes  was  long  and 
penetrating.  "  Ah,  let  us  be  frank  with  each  other/' 
she  entreated;  "  let  there  be  no  more  suspicions  or  pangs. 
We  have  been  at  odds,  but  the  fault  is  mine,  for  I  have 
opposed  your  ambition." 

"  Forgive  me,"  said  her  look  and  the  smile  that  flew 


198  FAME'S   PATHWAY 

with  it.  Her  eyes  did  not  refuse  him  now;  for  he  drew 
her  nearer,  kissed  her,  and  loved  her  dearly. 

"  I  feared  your  strength  was  not  equal  to  the  task  of 
scaling  the  heights  you  longed  to  reach,"  said  glowing 
Madeleine.  "  Never  more  will  I  oppose  your  wishes, 
for  my  heart  is  yours,  come  what  will.  I  believe  in 
you;  and  whether  this  poor  enterprise  of  ours  shall  suc 
ceed  or  fail,  I  '11  stand  with  you." 

"  And  for  my  sake,"  he  murmured,  "  you  sold  this 
house  that  has  been  yours  so  long  ?  " 

She  grew  blush-red  and  supremely  ashamed.  "  A 
hateful  house  with  hateful  memories,  Moliere.  Let  its 
price  pay  the  forfeit  of  your  loss  of  confidence." 

All  her  sweet  nature  seemed  to  hold  him  spellbound. 

"  Ah,  Madeleine,  never  more  will  I  doubt  thee ! " 

Yet  even  in  that  moment,  with  love  awake,  there  was 
a  strange  unquiet  in  her  heart.  All  that  she  had  suf 
fered  since  the  coming  of  Trinette,  the  slights  and  jibes 
of  the  girl,  the  suspicions  that  had  kindled  from  a  spark, 
that  day  when  he  had  kissed  her,  to  a  flame  of  torment 
when  the  jade  had  daunted  her  before  her  comrades — 
all  these  injuries,  capped  by  the  knowledge  that  love  is 
volatile  and  he  a  lover  whose  passion  was  tempered  by 
his  dreams,  made  her  strangely  fearful,  strangely  help 
less  before  the  sweetness  of  that  moment. 

"Protest  not  too  much,  Moliere,  with  those  eyes  of 
thine,"  she  said,  in  a  trembling  voice;  "for  they  were 
made  to  burn  with  jealousy  and  insatiable  longing." 

But  love  was  crying  between  the  pair,  so  in  the  soft 
light  he  kissed  her  to  silence  her  fears.  A  smile  tried 
hard  to  tremble  on  her  lips.  Tears  filled  her  eyes  and 
she  laughed  them  away. 


CHAPTER  XI 

WITH  DRUM  AND  TRUMPET 

ON  New  Year's  morn  grim  clouds  hung  low  over  the 
city;  and  when  Moliere  awoke  to  hear  the  dismal  patter 
ing  of  the  rain,  his  heart  sank,  for  it  was  the  day  of  the 
opening  of  the  Illustrious  Theatre.  Arduous  rehearsals 
and  a  burning  anxiety  lest  all  should  not  be  ready  had 
made  his  sleep  restless,  his  awakening  late.  When  he 
gazed  from  his  window  upon  the  dripping  wayfarers, 
he  could  have  wept  for  disappointment. 

Stealing  to  his  side,  Madeleine  sought  to  give  him 
courage.  "  Don't  worry,  dear ;  it  cannot  rain  always." 

Dejected,  he  drew  his  arm  about  her  waist.  "But 
that  it  should  rain  to-day  of  all  days !  "  he  sighed. 

"  When  the  wine  is  drawn,"  she  answered,  "  it  must  be 
drunk.  Our  opening  is  to-day,  rain  or  shine:  the  an 
nouncements  have  been  printed." 

"  And  paying  the  printer  took  my  last  livre." 

She  could  not  restrain  a  smile.  "  Now  that  those 
livres  of  yours  are  gone,  you  will  not  be  itching  to  spend 
them  foolishly." 

When  they  sallied  forth,  the  clouds  had  grown  lighter ; 
so  their  hopes  arose.  It  being  the  octave  of  Christmas 
day,  the  feast  of  the  Circumcision,  anxious  eyes  peered 
from  misty  windows  as  they  passed,  seeking  if  the 
weather  had  become  propitious  for  the  fete.  A  few 
venturesome  revellers  were  frolicking  through  the  streets 
in  j  esters'  garb,  beating  the  passers-by  with  straw-bound 
staves;  but  the  rain  kept  the  multitude  indoors  till  the 

199 


200  FAME'S    PATHWAY 

sun  burned  through  the  clouds.  Then  casements  were 
opened  hurriedly;  tapestries  and  gay  stuffs  were  hung 
from  the  balconies;  bells  pealed  merrily;  into  the  streets 
poured  the  populace  in  holiday  garb. 

Gay  with  glistening  copes,  gilt  images,  and  swinging 
silver  censers,  a  religious  procession  passed.  The  moist 
walls  echoed  with  the  chanting  of  its  priests  and  choir 
boys;  but  Madeleine  and  Moliere  thought  not  of  its 
symbolism,  for  the  sun  was  shining  on  bright  Paris  now, 
and  their  hearts  were  gladdened  by  the  sight  of  it. 

Passing  beneath  the  arches  of  the  porte  de  Nesle,  they 
beheld  their  theatre.  The  flowery  announcements  were 
posted  there,  and  now  and  then  an  idler  paused  to  read, 
but  none  passed  the  armed  door-keeper.  No  coaches 
rumbled  on  the  pavement  that  had  cost  two  hundred 
livres.  Beside  the  theatre  door,  Madeleine  saw  a  lame 
crone  roasting  Norman  apples  over  a  charcoal  fire.  The 
sight  of  these  missiles  of  the  pit  made  her  fearful, 
though  her  companion,  in  his  haste,  saw  them  not. 

In  the  dingy  tiring  room,  the  troupe  had  assembled. 
A  curtain  screened  the  actresses,  but  its  flimsiness  had 
been  penetrated  by  a  few  gay  comrades  of  Moliere's 
school  days — Jean  Hesnault,  rhymster  and  atheist; 
Bachaumont,  penner  of  mazarinades;  Fran£ois  Bernier, 
disciple  of  JEsculapius;  and  young  Le  Broussin,  a  gay 
epicurean — a  merry  band,  brought  thither  by  loyalty  to 
a  friend.  When  Madeleine  nodded  to  her  mates  she  was 
hailed  by  these  roisterers  too.  Beyond  the  curtain 
Chapelle's  voice  resounded  in  a  hearty  greeting  to 
Moliere. 

"  Luckily  he  is  back  in  Paris,"  thought  she ;  "  for  my 
boy  needs  encouragement  on  this  momentous  day." 

Shielding  herself  behind  the  lid  of  a  chest,  she  donned 


WITH    DRUM    AND    TRUMPET       201 

her  tinselled  costume  and  painted  false  roses  in  her 
cheeks;  but  the  sight  of  her  half-dressed  comrades  sigh 
ing  beneath  ardent  glances  turned  her  heart  against 
this  ribald  life  that  was  her  portion — till  the  voice  of 
Moliere  made  her  realise  that  it  was  his  life  too,  and 
she  its  guardian  spirit. 

"Chapelle,"  said  he,  dejectedly,  "  I  cannot  repay  your 
loan  at  present;  but  once  the  public  has  learned  our 
worth •" 

"  The  money  is  yours,"  interrupted  his  friend.  "  I 
only  won  back  the  sums  those  drunken  soldiers  robbed 
you  of.  As  for  the  public  learning  your  worth! 
Pardi,  I  counted  the  occupants  of  your  pit;  three  pick 
pockets,  two  candle  snuffers,  and  an  orange  girl." 

Moliere,  too,  had  seen  the  empty  theatre,  the  deserted 
street  before  the  door.  When  he  had  dressed,  he  stalked 
— booted  and  spurred — to  the  stage,  there  to  gaze 
through  the  curtains  at  the  gloomy  pit.  A  plumed  toque 
was  on  his  head,  a  Roman  corslet  encased  his  body ;  from 
his  shoulders  fell  a  crimson  mantle  worthy  a  Gothic 
chieftain;  a  modern  rapier  rattled  by  his  side:  yet  in 
spite  of  this  anachronistic  finery  and  steel,  he  was  a 
timorous  Charles  the  Bold;  for  his  heart  sank  before  the 
score  of  ruffians  he  saw  by  the  candle  glare — low-browed 
villains  all,  cursing,  quarrelling,  quaffing  rossolis  of 
Spanish  wine,  or  fleecing  a  dunderhead  at  lansquenet. 
From  the  darkness  beneath  the  boxes  came  a  stifled  cry 
— the  sound  of  hurrying  feet.  A  purse  had  been  cut, 
he  knew,  or  a  cloak  had  been  snatched.  To  such  rogues 
and  their  cullies  he  must  play;  yet  courage  did  not  fail 
him,  for  his  friends,  emerging  from  the  tiring  room, 
each  escorting  a  smiling  actress,  brought  hope  to  his 
trembling  heart. 


FAME'S    PATHWAY 

"  They  are  not  miscreants  to  snatch  cloaks  or  cut 
purses,"  he  sighed.  "  They  will  proclaim  the  merits  of 
the  Illustrious  Theatre." 

His  fellow-actors  gave  him  a  new  cause  of  anguish. 
Montfleury  owned  costumes  worth  five  hundred  ecus 
each !  Would  the  public  countenance  those  time-stained 
doublets  and  well  darned  hose,  those  faded  plumes  and 
tarnished  cloaks  hired  of  a  fripper  in  the  arcades  of  the 
market-place?  Alas!  the  building  of  the  empty  boxes 
and  the  unused  pavement  had  left  no  funds  for  lavish 
costumes. 

His  friends  seated  themselves  upon  the  stage,  hearty 
Leonard  Aubry,  too,  and  Fra^ois  Tristan  de  1'Hermite, 
author  of  "  Mariamne,"  with  its  hateful  role  of  Herod. 
Where  were  the  masked  ladies  and  plumed  cavaliers  of 
the  court,  the  poets  and  wits  of  the  Hotel  de  Ram- 
bouillet?  The  empty  boxes,  gaudy  in  their  fresh  paint, 
gave  silent  answer. 

Sharing  his  trepidation,  Moliere's  comrades  gazed  de 
jectedly  at  the  rascally  corporal's  guard  in  the  pit.  Four 
"  master  players  "  tuned  their  instruments ;  a  single  fat 
burgher  climbed  toward  the  tawdry  boxes  with  his 
waddling  wife  and  daughter.  In  the  doorway  clanked 
the  spurs  of  two  tipsy  soldiers.  Each  pricked  the  calves 
of  the  porter  with  his  rapier  as  he  passed,  till  the  mis 
erable  fellow  cried  mercy.  Gaunt  moucheurs  lowered 
the  sputtering  candles  for  a  final  snuffing  ere  the  play 
began;  meanwhile,  the  hearts  of  the  actors  sank  deep 
into  their  boots. 

"  Our  venture  is  wrecked  ere  it  is  launched ! "  sighed 
sebaceous  George  Pinel. 

Germain  Clerin  whined,  like  a  child,  that  he  could  not 
play  to  such  a  sparse  audience. 


WITH   DRUM   AND   TRUMPET       203 

"  Then  gather  a  b-b-better  one !  "  stammered  lean 
Bejart.  "  B-b-beys,  the  old  stager,  knows  the  game — 
a  procession  through  the  f-f-faubourg  with  drum  and 
trumpet." 

"  Ay,"  said  Beys ;  "  a  virtue  of  necessity." 

To  Moliere  the  plan  was  broached.  A  forlorn  hope 
it  seemed,  still  he  volunteered  to  lead  it.  Divining  his 
qualms,  Madeleine  held  that,  as  the  burden  of  the  lead 
ing  role  lay  upon  him,  he  should  not  parade — an  argu 
ment  that  prevailed.  With  the  actors,  she  marched  forth 
in  tarnished  finery  to  gather  a  crowd  with  flim-flam  and 
din,  while  he,  alone  upon  the  stage,  listened  to  the  beat 
ing  of  her  drum. 

Alas !  this  theatre,  so  exalted  in  his  dreams,  was  only 
the  haunt  of  knaves  and  blockheads ;  yet  his  zeal  abated 
not.  "  I  will  play  with  all  the  ardour  in  me,"  he 
avowed;  "  play  my  part  as  I  have  conceived  it,  even 
should  the  pit  break  forth  in  hisses  and  jeers;  for  art  is 
but  the  doing  of  a  thing  well,  and  acting,  if  it  be  an 
art,  is  the  painting  of  human  nature  well." 

Seeing  him  dreaming,  Trinette  stole  beside  him. 
Superb  wanton,  her  face  was  like  a  southern  sky  con 
fronting  night:  the  ruddy  flame  of  her  cheeks,  for  the 
red  colour;  soft  olive  bordering  the  red;  then  vivid  yel 
low  and  amber,  softening  till  the  darkness  of  her  sable 
hair  was  met;  for  she  was  tawny  as  a  gypsy  and  with 
eyes  as  flashing. 

Seeing  the  glint  of  her  white  teeth,  he  drew  back  in 
self-protection. 

The  curve  of  her  brows  broke  in  a  frown.  "  You 
avoid  me,  Moliere.  Is  it  from  fear  or  distaste  ?  " 

His  heart  closed  to  her,  for  he  felt  secure  in  his  love 
for  Madeleine.  "  It  is  not  from  fear,"  he  answered. 


204  FAME'S    PATHWAY 

The  girl's  firm  bosom  lifted  and  sank  in  scorn.  "  I 
can  be  a  bitter  enemy,"  she  said. 

But  he  was  in  a  charitable  mood.  "  Why  should  you 
take  umbrage  ?  "  he  asked.  "  Do  I  harm  you  in  being 
loyal?" 

"  Loyal  to  eyes  that  beam  on  you  in  the  absence  of 
another !  "  scoffed  Trinette. 

A  flush  of  wounded  pride  crossed  his  face.  He  had 
begun  to  hate  this  girl,  hate  her  as  bitterly  as  did  Mad 
eleine — this  girl  whose  bent  was  mischief-making.  "  Tri 
nette,"  he  said,  "  I  wish  no  quarrel  with  you ;  but  un 
derstand,  once  for  all,  that  I  shall  brook  no  more  of  your 
spite." 

She  laughed,  as  he  turned  on  his  heel,  and  called  him 
a  cat's-paw.  Fearing  her  hold  on  him  was  lost,  in 
lightning  flashes  of  her  evil  mind  she  strove  to  formu 
late  a  plan  that  would  wound  him  in  his  most  vulnerable 
part,  his  confidence  in  Madeleine. 

But  he  was  too  occupied  with  a  danger  more  pressing 
to  heed  her  hateful  glances.  To  the  pit  a  few  more 
idlers  had  come,  attracted  thither  by  drum  beat  and 
trumpet  call;  but  the  legs  of  those  already  gathered 
there  had  grown  weary.  Ominous  shouts  resounded 
through  the  tennis-court. 

"  Begin !  Begin !  In  the  name  of  a  thousand  thun 
ders,  let  the  play  begin!  Pardi;  'tis  three  o'clock." 

To  lean  against  the  walls  and  pick  their  teeth  with 
wisps  of  straw,  the  dicers  had  gathered  up  their  dice- 
cups;  growling,  whistling,  and  stamping  their  feet,  they 
created  a  deafening  hullabaloo.  Pickpockets  jostled  the 
few  burghers  who  paced  the  floor;  on  soldiers'  heels, 
spurs  jingled;  the  hilts  of  rapiers  were  clutched;  blades 
rattled  in  their  scabbards;  and  all  the  while  shouts  of 


WITH   DRUM    AND    TRUMPET       205 

"  Begin !  Begin !  "  echoed  through  the  cheerless  hall 
till  the  shrill  cries  of  the  orange  girl  were  drowned. 

Moliere,  undismayed,  stepped  through  the  curtains  to 
face  the  restless  pit. 

"  Begin  ?  "  he  cried  in  scorn  of  it.  "  Why  should  we 
begin  until  we  are  ready?  " 

Seeing  an  actor's  face  beneath  the  tallow  dips  sput 
tering  above  the  stage,  the  crowd  began  to  jeer;  but  a 
light-horseman,  wishing  to  hear  this  bold  young  fellow, 
raised  his  hand.  "  Silence !  "  he  shouted.  "  Silence ! 
Let  the  rogue  speak." 

His  eyes  flashing,  his  head  thrown  back  defiantly, 
Moliere  sought  to  quell  the.  impatience  of  that  crowd 
with  persiflage.  "  Play  to  an  audience  the  half  of  which 
has  not  paid  the  price  of  admission?  Go,  leave  your 
money  at  the  door.  Then,  if  we  are  ready,  we  will  be 
gin  ;  for  we  have  had  the  patience  to  build  a  fine  theatre 
in  your  faubourg  and  prepare  a  play  hot  from  the 
oven ! " 

These  bantering  words  changed  the  humour  of  the 
crowd.  Seeing  the  tide  of  riot  quelled,  Moliere  became 
emboldened.  "  This  is  the  Illustrious  Theatre,"  he 
shouted  resolutely, — "  a  playhouse  devoted  to  a  noble 
cause.  Here  shall  we  enact  tragedies  truly  national. 
To  an  astute  and  appreciative  public  we  make  appeal." 

It  was  not  a  crowd  to  which  a  drama  truly  national 
would  commend  itself. 

"  Silence !  Silence ! "  rang  from  many  throats. 
"  Leave  us  to  judge  of  thy  merits ! " 

Drum-beats  resounded  in  the  street;  idlers  sauntered 
into  the  pit ;  another  bourgeois  family  climbed  the  stairs. 
The  rabble,  in  no  mood  for  long-winded  speeches,  hooted 
until  the  lad  was  forced  to  slip  away  and  wait  until  the 


206  FAME'S   PATHWAY 

comrades  who  had  paraded  for  a  noble  cause  had  reached 
the  tiring  room. 

At  last  Beys  rapped  upon  the  stage.  Upon  the  out 
come  of  that  tragedy  of  "Charles  the  Bold"  Moliere  knew 
his  future  depended,  and  his  blood  ran  cold.  His 
friends  were  settling  themselves  in  their  rush-bottomed 
chairs,  the  actors  waiting  for  their  cues;  feet  were 
scuffling,  fiddles  whining.  When  the  curtain  drew  apart 
and  he  beheld  the  faces  of  that  audience  villainous  in  the 
candle  light,  his  heart  stood  still. 

"  Courage,  Moliere,  courage !  "  whispered  Madeleine ; 
and  gratefully  he  pressed  her  hand. 


CHAPTER  XII 

THE    DEBUT 

MOLIERE'S  senses  were  coursing  away  from  him  with  his 
coursing  blood,  yet  for  an  entire  act  he  was  obliged  to 
stand  trembling  while  awaiting  his  cue.  The  play  was 
a  fell  tragedy.  In  love  with  a  worthy  citizen's  wife,  a 
Burgundian  governor  forged  her  lord's  signature  to  a 
treasonable  letter  and  thereby  compassed  his  death.  Un 
aware  of  her  husband's  execution,  the  heroine  pleaded 
with  the  villain  for  his  life.  For  her  caresses  he  would 
grant  this  grace,  yet  she  scorned  him.  Foiled,  he  plot 
ted  to  entrap  her.  She,  escaping  his  infamous  clutches, 
sought  her  liege  lord,  Charles  the  Bold. 

Moliere's  cue  at  last.  The  moment  his  voice  resounded 
through  the  vast  tennis-court,  resolution  overcame  his 
fears.  He  played  as  he  had  designed  to  play,  without 
bombast  or  fustian — played  tragedy  with  the  naturalism 
of  Scaramouche  and  his  Italian  mimes. 

When  Madeleine,  as  the  heroine,  pleaded  for  justice, 
and  he,  the  Burgundian  prince,  commanded  his  in 
famous  vassal  to  espouse  her  in  vindication  of  her  in 
jured  honour,  the  rabble  in  the  pit,  the  few  burghers  in 
the  boxes,  saw  a  Charles  the  Bold  moving,  gesturing, 
talking  like  a  human  being ;  but  they  craved  a  blusterer, 
one  to  stride  and  rant  and  saw  the  air.  The  villain  was 
in  the  hero's  power,  his  infamy  unmasked.  They  wished 
him  to  be  withered  with  bellowing  scorn,  wished  the  four 
walls  to  tremble  to  the  rushing  of  a  mighty  cataract  of 
rhythm. 

207 


208  FAME'S    PATHWAY 

Alas !  that  young  actor  with  a  nose  so  big  that  were  it 
not  for  the  celestial  eyes  gleaming  beneath  black, 
bushy  brows  he  would  have  been  grotesque,  turned  on  the 
base  governor  with  Gallic  vehemence.  Words  flowed 
from  his  thick  lips  with  a  volubility  that  made  the  verses 
he  uttered  sound  like  impetuous  prose.  No  prince  was 
this,  nor  hero,  but  an  outraged  man,  raging  as  any  fellow 
in  the  pit  would  do  had  he  caught  a  rascally  dicer  in  the 
act  of  cozening  him.  In  truth,  this  was  not  acting,  nay, 
nor  the  semblance  of  it;  for  even  that  lean  rogue  in  the 
villain's  role  gave  dignity  to  his  verses — when  he  did  not 
stutter. 

So  thought  the  occupants  of  the  pit;  and  when  the 
curtains  closed  upon  the  act,  murmurs  of  disapproval 
flowed  from  their  coarse  tongues.  Still  there  were  no 
hisses  or  jeers.  The  lad  at  least  had  been  in  earnest. 
They  would  give  him  one  more  chance  to  prove  his 
mettle. 

Upon  the  stage  less  charity  was  shown  even  by  those 
who  should  have  been  most  lenient — Moliere's  bosom 
friends.  Stretching  themselves  and  smoothing  their  rib 
bons,  they  prated  sneeringly  of  the  sad  exhibition  they 
had  witnessed,  prated  so  loudly  that  the  young  actor, 
standing  in  the  shadow  of  a  curtain,  was  constrained  to 
listen  and  be  cruelly  hurt. 

"  As  a  poet,  I  protest,"  said  Hesnault,  "  against  such 
butchery  of  verse." 

Le  Broussin  combed  the  curls  of  his  wig.  "  To 
think  that  Jean-Baptiste  could  be  so  pitifully  bad  an 
actor ! " 

"To  think  that  when  he  was  a  schoolboy,"  sighed 
Bernier,  "  he  played  Plautus  for  the  Jesuit  fathers  with 
some  pretence  of  skill !  " 


THE    DEBUT  209 

"  And  yet  to-day/'  sneered  Hesnault,  "  he  smote  the 
ears  of  every  man  having  a  sense  of  rhythm." 

"  Morbleu !  "  said  Le  Broussin,  "  stuffing  the  backs  of 
chairs  with  wool  is  his  metier." 

Bachaumont  was  playing  with  the  feathers  of  his  hat, 
smoothing  and  petting  them.  "  Verses  are  made  to  be 
spoken  rhythmically,"  said  he.  "  They  should  flow  like 
a  river  of  harmony.  An  actor's  voice  should  be  melo 
dious;  his  manner  grandiose;  he  should  thrill  our  hearts 
with  resonance." 

Chapelle,  paying  court  to  La  Malingre,  turned  from 
her  abruptly.  "  Balderdash !  "  he  cried.  "  Acting  is 
the  simulation  of  nature;  and  when  an  actor  makes  us 
feel,  as  does  Jean-Baptiste,  that  the  role  he  is  portraying 
is  a  human  being,  sacrebleu!  he  is  acting." 

Laughter  greeted  these  words. 

"  Dost  fancy  he  is  a  better  actor  than  Montfleury?  " 

"  Pardi,  a  far  better  actor,"  said  Chapelle,  pound 
ing  his  ribboned  cane  upon  the  stage  to  accentuate  his 
words. 

"  What  saith  Fra^ois  Tristan  de  1'Hermite  to  that?  " 
asked  Bachaumont  of  the  poet,  who  stood  listening. 

Being  a  man  of  discernment,  this  warm-hearted 
brother  of  Modene's  henchman,  this  worthy  author  of 
tragedies,  arrayed  himself  with  Chapelle;  yet,  claiming 
descent  from  a  king's  hangman,  he  must  needs  stroke  his 
fierce  moustache  and  jingle  his  rapier  to  demonstrate 
his  quality. 

"  Acting  is  indeed  the  simulation  of  nature,"  said  he. 
"  Alas !  the  taste  of  the  public  has  been  too  perverted  by 
rodomontade  to  appreciate  true  art.  Unless  our  young 
friend  caters  to  a  depraved  taste,  his  path  will  be  a 
stormy  one,  I  fear." 


210  FAME'S    PATHWAY 

A  scoffing  reply  was  on  Bachaumont's  lips,  but  he  saw 
that  Moliere  was  listening,  so  he  went  toward  him,  as 
did  Hesnault,  Bernier,  and  Le  Broussin,  to  make  a 
canting  show  of  friendship.  Chapelle,  shrugging  his 
shoulders  as  they  went,  returned  to  the  radiance  of  La 
Malingre's  eyes. 

Every  disparaging  word  these  sham  friends  had  ut 
tered,  Moliere  had  overheard.  When  they  began  to 
commend  his  acting  in  forced  phrases  and  insincere 
tones,  he  longed  to  denounce  them  for  a  pack  of  base 
deceivers  and  hypocrites.  Wisely  holding  his  peace, 
he  accepted  this  prating  at  its  true  value;  turning  away 
to  nurse  an  injured  heart,  the  belittling  words  of  those 
who  should  have  been  most  charitable  making  him  realise 
more  than  the  murmurs  of  the  pit,  that  he  was  waking 
from  his  dream  of  triumph. 

As  he  stood  alone  beneath  the  sputtering  candles  rue 
fully  trying  to  subdue  his  anguish,  Mareschal  stepped 
toward  him. 

"  You  are  ruining  my  play !  "  he  shrieked.  "  In  the 
name  of  Heaven,  let  your  voice  go !  Raise  the  roof  with 
elocution!  Do  something  to  redeem  the  evil  your  per- 
verseness  and  conceit  have  wrought ! " 

Fat  Beys  beat  upon  the  stage  three  times.  It  roused 
the  artist's  spirit  in  Moliere.  "  Stamp  and  bellow  ?  "  he 
thought.  "  Imitate  the  bombast  of  Mountfleury  ?  Nay> 
I  cannot ! " 

"  Rather  than  cater  to  a  base  public  taste,"  he  cried, 
turning  upon  Mareschal  with  scorn,  "  I  '11  let  thy  play 
perish,  and  gladly  perish  with  it !  " 

.Too  white  with  rage  to  speak,  Mareschal  shook  the 
manuscript  of  "  Charles  the  Bold  "  in  defiance.  The  cur 
tains  parted.  Moliere  moved  where  Madeleine  stood 
and  whispered: 


THE    DEBUT 

"  They  say  that  my  acting  is  bad,  that  I  must  rant  and 
stride  and  gesture." 

"  Alas !  this  audience  sees  not  that  your  method  is 
human  and  real." 

"Would  you  have  me  prostitute  my  art?  "  he  asked, 
with  an  appealing  gesture. 

Convinced  that  his  acting  was  true,  she  had  seen,  too, 
that  it  was  an  offence  to  the  audience,  yet  she  spoke 
bravely :  "  Play  your  role  as  you  have  conceived  it," 
she  answered,  though  knowing  the  futility  of  flying 
counter  to  the  public  taste. 

Catching  fire  from  her  words,  he  stepped  upon  the 
stage.  Valiantly  his  voice  rang  through  the  tennis- 
court.  Yet  the  current  of  sympathy  an  actor  feels  when 
an  audience  is  moved,  flowed  not  between  him  and  that 
surging  pit.  Whenever  a  fellow-actor  spouted  a 
flowery  verse,  the  coarse  faces  beneath  the  flickering 
candles  brightened.  He,  seeking  to  convince  the  louts 
before  him  that  Charles  the  Bold  of  Burgundy  was  no 
more  than  a  human  being  like  themselves,  was  met  with 
sneers,  impatient  looks,  and  then  with  jeers. 

"  The  lad  with  the  big  nose  is  no  actor !  " 

"  Nay ;  his  head  is  as  thick  as  his  lips." 

"  He  speaks  with  no  more  unction  than  an  archer  of 
police ! " 

"  And  steps  with  no  more  grace  than  a  royal  Swiss !  " 

"  A  Charles  the  Bold  ?  Forsooth,  a  Charles  the 
Base!" 

He  heard  these  taunts,  he  saw  the  mocking  faces. 
Soon  that  seething  pit  must  overwhelm  him  with  its  hate. 
Yet  he  went  on  playing  in  defiance  of  it. 

The  scene  was  crucial.  Forced,  in  expiation  of  a  sin 
ful  love,  to  wed  the  suffering  heroine,  the  villain  was 
then  condemned  to  death  by  Charles  the  Bold  for  his 


FAME'S    PATHWAY 

traitorous  forgery.  To  the  equitable  duke  came  a 
veiled  lady.  "  The  culprit  is  your  Grace's  son,"  said 
she,  "  born  of  my  dead  sister."  Alas,  the  prince  must 
choose  between  death  to  his  own  son  or  to  his  honour! 

Moliere  might  have  racked  his  auditor's  hearts  with 
ranting  grief;  yet,  being  no  fustianist,  he  scorned  this 
histrionic  trick.  He  had  studied  the  character  of 
Charles  the  Bold — had  read  the  memoirs  of  Comines. 
To  him,  the  Duke  of  Burgundy  was  contained  as  well  as 
impetuous — a  hard  prince  indeed,  passionate  and  brutal, 
but  a  prince  whose  royal  pride  was  intense.  A  fiery 
temper  he  had,  for  it  led  him  to  destruction ;  yet  Moliere 
refused  to  believe  that  the  rash  ruler  of  Burgundy  would 
break  forth  in  loud  weeping  and  beat  the  air  with 
gestures  of  woe  when  brought  face  to  face  with  a  ter 
rible  duty. 

So  reasoned  he,  and  so  he  played  his  part.  Not  like 
a  snivelling,  weeping  churl,  but  like  a  prince  who  un 
derstood  that  royal  pride  forbade  him  to  betray  in  the 
presence  of  a  subject  the  full  depth  of  his  anguish,  did 
he  speak  these  lines: 

"Ah,  justice,  fate!    Severe  are  thy  commands! 
Thy  mandates  urge  me  to  the  end  where  I 
Must  lose  a  son!   Just  Heaven!    I  have  done 
The  deed.    I  weep,  but  never  shall  repent!" 

The  audience  looked  to  see  the  poor  Burgundian's 
chest  inflate  with  the  pangs  of  woe,  looked  to  see  his 
eyes  flow  with  tears  and  his  arms  wave  pathetically. 
Seeing  upon  the  stage  a  Charles  the  Bold  without  a 
scintilla  of  bluster  in  his  speech — a  contained  prince, 
striving  to  control  his  anguish  and  speaking  with  a  quiet 
tremor  the  lines  he  should  have  bellowed — the  anger  of 
that  motley  audience  broke  forth  in  hisses  and  jeers; 


THE    DEBUT 

then,  in  its  rage,  it  began  to  pelt  the  mindless  young 
actor  with  roasted  Norman  apples — base  missiles  of  its 
discontent. 

Pale  to  the  lips,  Moliere  faced  this  storm  of  ignominy, 
his  dark  eyes  seeming  to  say,  like  a  wounded  deer's, 
"  Strike  me,  I  will  not  flee."  Trembling  with  both  rage 
and  fear,  he  stood  unable  to  move  or  cry  out.  The  shame 
of  it,  O  Lord,  the  shame  of  it!  moaned  his  heart;  for  the 
disgrace  he  felt  was  worse  than  the  sting  of  the 
villainous  bolts  that  spattered  his  finery.  Still  was  he 
undaunted,  and  waiting  for  the  force  of  that  vile  storm 
to  spend  itself,  he  took  his  degrading  punishment  with 
out  a  murmur. 

Seeing  him  thus  obstinate,  a  musketeer  whisked  his 
sword  from  its  sheath.  "  In  the  name  of  St.  Genest, 
patron  of  bad  actors,"  he  shouted,  "  let 's  despatch  that 
fellow!" 

"  Ay,  to  the  stage !  to  the  stage !  "  echoed  a  dozen 
hoarse  voices. 

In  a  trice  the  mob  was  in  a  tumult  of  mischief  with 
rapiers  glistening:  toward  the  barrier  separating  the 
stage  from  the  pit  surged  the  rogues  who  brandished 
them. 

The  actors  cowered.  The  gentlemen  upon  the  stage 
sprang  from  their  chairs  to  draw  their  weapons.  Tri- 
nette  and  La  Malingre  fled  screaming  to  the  tiring 
room.  Seizing  Moliere's  hand,  Madeleine  tried  to  drag 
him  away,  but  he  pushed  her  aside  and  stood  glaring  at 
those  angry  faces  billowing  toward  him. 

The  cowardice  that  is  in  all  men  pointed  a  trembling 
finger  at  but  one  thing — flight.  For  an  instant  the  the 
atre  with  its  sputtering  lights  reeled  before  him  and  was 
lost  in  fire.  Then  the  courage  that  is  born  of  despair 


FAME'S    PATHWAY 

rose  in  his  fluttering  heart — a  frenzied  courage  that  made 
him  defy  his  tormentors. 

Facing  them,  he  drew  the  sword  that  dangled  by  his 
side.  "  By  St.  Genest,"  he  shouted,  "  I  '11  not  flee  like  a 
coward,  nor  will  I  bellow  like  Montfleury ! " 

"  Spit  him !  Spit  the  rascal !  "  cried  voices  in  the 
rear;  but  the  rogues  in  front  were  stayed  by  the  sight 
of  a  keen  blade  glistering  on  the  stage  above  them. 
Moreover,  that  resolute  young  actor  no  longer  stood 
alone;  for,  when  he  faced  the  angry  crowd,  Chapelle 
sprang  forward  with  his  rapier  drawn.  In  bantering 
tones  this  generous  rake  addressed  the  pit: 

"  Spit  the  rascal,  would  you  ?  Methinks  you  would 
sell  the  bear's  skin  before  you  have  killed  the  bear !  " 

A  pair  of  determined  swordsmen  to  defend  an  elevated 
stage — a  barrier  that  must  be  leaped!  Pardi,  the  at 
tackers  might  be  despatched,  man  by  man !  For  such  an 
assault,  there  was  no  stomach  in  that  crowd.  Content  to 
jeer  and  hiss,  it  halted  in  its  onward  march. 

Moliere  recovered  his  senses,  his  quaking  comrades 
their  sang-froid.  To  taunt  the  bully-rooks  before  him, 
Chapelle  cased  his  weapon.  Shaking  the  laces  of  his 
cuffs  contemptuously,  he  struck  a  haughty  attitude  and 
gave  the  pit  a  look  of  compassion. 

"  Laugh  away,  pit ;  laugh  away !  "  he  scoffed ;  "  but 
the  shoe  of  ridicule  is  on  your  foot.  Morbleu,  were  a 
human  being  to  rant  and  stamp  and  beat  the  air  as  you 
would  have  my  young  friend  do,  in  a  trice  you  would 
clap  him  in  a  madhouse !  Fair  play,  my  lads,  fair  play ! 
Let  this  tragedy  proceed;  and  if  you  like  it  not,  come 
not  again." 

The  cluster  of  rascals  who  had  been  rioting  sheathed 
their  rapiers,  but  their  eyes  remained  sullen.  Though 


By  Saint   Genest,  I'll  not   flee   like  a  coward,"  he  shouted 


THE    DEBUT  215 

Moliere  played  resolutely,  the  pit  was  callous.  In  vain 
he  listened  for  hand-claps  and  approving  shouts ;  the  dull 
walls  were  silent  or  murmured  with  jeers.  Beneath 
their  ranting  breaths,  his  comrades  cursed  him;  Tri- 
nette's  eyes  flashed  in  scorn  of  him. 

Backed  by  a  keen  weapon,  Chapelle's  banter  had 
quelled  the  ardour  of  the  rioters,  though  not  their  aver 
sion.  To  them,  Moliere  was  a  bad  actor;  and  none  is 
more  to  be  pitied  than  a  bad  actor  playing  to  an  anti 
pathetic  audience.  The  gloom  of  the  spectators  de 
scended  upon  the  troupe,  the  gloom  of  the  troupe  upon 
Moliere.  Indeed,  he  needed  not  the  curses  of  his  com 
rades  to  tell  him  that  the  day  had  seen  a  galling  rout  for 
him — that  failure  had  been  spelled  in  burning  letters  of 
shame:  yet  conscientiously  he  played  until  the  ignomin 
ious  end,  played  with  all  the  courage  his  oppressed  heart 
could  summon. 

Paris  marvelling  at  his  talent!  The  four  walls 
trembling  to  applause!  Alas!  how  bitterly  had  that 
wild  dream  been  dissipated.  While  the  echo  of  the 
hisses  and  groans  rang  cruelly  in  his  ears,  and  the 
rogues  who  had  scorned  him  filed  out  of  the  dismal 
theatre,  he  stood  alone  in  the  candle  light — a  rigid  figure 
of  despair.  The  actors  shrank  from  him:  Bernier,  Hes- 
nault,  and  the  rest  tripped  to  the  tiring  room:  alone  of 
those  who  would  have  been  generous,  Chapelle  put  f  ortli 
a  hand. 

"  Claude,  Claude,"  cried  the  pitiable  lad,  "  you,  at 
least,  are  still  my  friend ! " 

"  He  who  ceases  to  be  a  friend,"  said  Chapelle,  "  has 
never  been  one." 

Grateful  tears  welled  in  Moliere's  eyes.  Madeleine 
stealing  to  his  side,  drew  his  arm  about  her  tenderly. 


CHAPTER  XIII 

EXIT    TRINETTE 

Too  crestfallen  to  discard  the  shabby  finery  of  Charles 
the  Bold,  Moliere  sat  aloof  from  his  comrades  in  the 
tiring  room.  His  last  livre  gone,  his  company  in  straits, 
all  Paris  laughing  at  his  ignominious  debut!  The  dis 
grace  seemed  to  him  as  ineffaceable  as  the  stains  riot 
had  made  on  the  rusty  habiliments  he  wore;  and  aghast 
at  the  thought  of  it,  his  heart  beat  out  a  dirge  of  shame 
and  misery.  The  way  to  success  seemed  long  and  hope 
lessly  barren ;  yet  of  himself  he  hardly  dared  think ;  for 
he  felt  that  it  was  but  the  ghost  of  himself  watching  with 
haggard  eyes  those  comrades  he  had  led  to  base  defeat. 

His  gay  friends  hovered  near;  yet  even  Madelon  Ma- 
lingre  had  no  eye  for  coquetry.  Le  Broussin  alone 
snatched  a  kiss — and  that  from  Trinette's  painted  lips. 
While  the  actresses  exchanged  their  bedizened  costumes 
for  dowdy  dresses,  and  the  actors  washed  the  charcoal 
and  flour  from  their  sullen  faces,  Mareschal,  the  author, 
paced  the  floor  despondently,  the  manuscript  of  his 
tragedy  crumpled  in  his  lean  hands. 

"  Alas,  if  my  play  could  only  have  been  well  inter 
preted!  "  he  sighed,  stopping  in  his  dejected  walk  to 
glare  at  Moliere. 

Chapelle  turned  from  La  Malingre  to  wave  his  rib 
boned  cane  benignly.  "  Tush,  my  friend,  tush !  Even 
the  best  horse  will  boggle;  but  the  trouble  lay  with  the 
pit.  They  who  are  but  little  wise  are  the  biggest  fools." 

Fra^ois  Tristan  de  1'Hermite,  who  stood  stroking  his 
216 


EXIT   TRINETTE  217 

moustache,  flashed  scorn  at  Mareschal  too.  "  I  '11  war 
rant  that,  if  you  have  another  tragedy  penned,  you  '11 
come  with  it  in  supplication  to  this  Illustrious  Company; 
for  hunger,  my  lad,  chases  the  wolf  from  the  forest." 

The  advocate  laughed  rudely.  "It  is  apparent  that 
Tristan  has  a  tragedy  in  his  own  closet." 

Drawing  himself  up  stiffly,  this  proud  descendant  of 
a  king's  hangman  spoke  with  voice  and  gesture  of  dis 
dain.  "  I  have  a  tragedy,  my  friend,  entitled  '  The 
Death  of  Seneca.'  I  am  pleased  to  offer  it  to  the  Illus 
trious  Theatre.  Moreover,  I  will  beseech  my  royal 
patron,  His  Highness,  the  Duke  of  Orleans,  to  grant 
his  protection  to  this  worthy  company." 

Moliere  had  listened  to  this  altercation  without  the 
spirit  to  reply  to  Mareschal's  affront.  When  Chapelle 
spoke,  his  heart  leaped  and  his  eye  brightened.  To 
Tristan  de  1'Hermite,  he  turned  a  grateful  face.  Nor 
was  hope  inspired  in  his  breast  alone:  to  his  comrades 
the  poet's  offer  shone  like  a  ray  of  sunshine  through  the 
clouds  oppressing  them.  One  by  one  they  came  sidling 
up  to  him  to  express  their  gratitude  and  esteem;  then 
Madeleine  addressed  the  company. 

"  It  would  be  idle,"  said  she,  "  to  deny  the  disappoint 
ment  this  day  has  brought  forth;  yet,  with  generous 
Tristan  and  Monsieur  Chapelle,  I  hold  that  the  reason 
of  our  disaster  lay,  not  with  any  one  of  us,  but  with 
our  audience — a  jury  of  swine." 

Trinette  pished  and  pshawed.  With  scorn  in  her 
eyes  and  on  her  lips,  she  glanced  toward  Madeleine. 
"A  jury  of  swine!"  she  laughed.  "  The  Circe  is  not 
far  to  seek." 

In  a  trice  Moliere  was  on  his  feet.  "  I  warned  you," 
he  cried,  "  that  I  would  brook  no  more  of  your  spite ! " 


218  FAME'S    PATHWAY 

Trinette  tossed  her  head  back  in  a  wild  peal  of 
laughter.  "  Oho,  a  Charles  the  Bold  at  last !  What  a 
pity  he  did  not  play  the  role  sooner !  " 

Anger  blazed  in  Moliere's  eyes,  anger  dusked  by  con 
trition. 

"  Trinette !  "  he  exclaimed,  "  you  have  been  a  trouble 
maker  in  this  company.  I  demand  that  you  apologise  to 
Madeleine." 

There  was  hate  in  Trinette's  glance,  but  laughter  still 
lingered  on  her  lips.  "  Sacrebleu ! — but  the  lad  is 
testy.  One  would  think  those  Norman  apples  should 
have  silenced  him." 

The  resentment  and  shame  in  Moliere's  heart  seemed 
to  turn  to  fire  and  flame  in  his  cheeks.  With  a  hand 
upon  his  sleeve,  Madeleine  spoke  to  restrain  him: 
"Don't  quarrel,  Moliere;  the  jade  is  not  worth  a 
quarrel." 

In  Trinette's  heart  there  was  a  red  fury,  but  she 
bridled  it  with  mockery.  "  '  The  j  ade'  forsooth !  and 
that  from  such  as  you — a  baggage  cast  off  by  an  incon 
stant  rake." 

Madeleine's  eyes  met  her  stormily,  but  she  had  no 
voice.  Joseph  Bejart  became  her  champion;  for  Moliere 
was  stricken  dumb  by  the  girl's  hateful  words. 

"  Hold  thy  t-t-tongue,  thou  h-h-hussy !  " 

"  Nay,  I  '11  not  hold  my  tongue,"  cried  Trinette ;  "  for 
it  is  your  sister  who  dupes  Moliere,  not  I.  Who  choused 
him  of  his  inheritance,  I  ask  you;  and  who  abets  him  in 
the  belief  that  he  is  an  actor,  when  even  the  riff-raff  of  a 
faubourg  hisses  him?  Not  I,  surely;  for  I  have  not  been 
cast  aside  for  a  fairer  girl." 

Bejart  could  only  sputter  his  rage.  Madeleine's 
troubled  eyes  tried  to  met  Moliere's  but  failed  miserably ; 


EXIT    TRINETTE  219 

for  the  lad  was  searching  the  faces  of  his  mates.  "  Com 
rades/'  he  cried,  "  heed  not  her  malice !  Every  word  she 
utters  is  false !  " 

But  this  olive-cheeked  Trinette  had  proved  the  sharp 
ness  of  her  tongue  and  was  to  prove  it  again.  Con 
scious  that  her  triumph  was  afoot,  she  answered  him 
boldly,  her  glance  resting  on  the  hangman's  descendant. 

"  Ask  this  glib  poet  who  offers  his  tragedies  and  the 
protection  of  Monsieur,  if  I  speak  not  the  truth.  Ask 
him  if  that  worthless  brother  of  his  did  not  abet  his 
wife,  Marie  Courtin,  in  supplanting  Madeleine  in  the 
heart  of  the  Baron  de  Modene;  and  when  he  has  con 
fessed  that,  as  he  must  if  he  perjure  not  himself,  ask 
yourselves  why  Madeleine  turned  from  a  prince's  gen- 
tleman-in-waiting  to  an  upholsterer's  son.  If  you  be  not 
dullards,  you  will  see  it  was  from  pique  and  irot  for 
love  of  this  fatuous  comrade  who  dubs  me  a  trouble 
maker." 

The  tempest  caused  by  this  tirade  was  not  long 
a-brewing. 

"  As  I  serve  a  worthy  prince,"  shouted  Tristan,  "  the 
brazen  quean  lies " 

Moliere  shook  a  clinched  fist  in  the  girl's  mocking  face. 
"  By  Heaven,  you  shall  leave  this  company !  "  he  cried, 
his  rage  trembling  from  him. 

The  stutterer's  lean  frame  quivered.  "  Ay,  leave  it 
f-f-f orthwith !  One  s-s-scurvy  sheep  is  enough  to  taint 
a  flock ! " 

Trinette  stood  with  folded  arms  and  contemptuous 
brows.  "  Yes,  drive  me  out,  when  only  the  truth  gives 
offence !  "  she  said,  her  cheeks  aglow  with  defiance. 

To  his  fellow-actors  Moliere  opened  his  heart  and  his 
conscience.  "  You  have  heard  what  she  said — heard 


220  FAME'S   PATHWAY 

her  insult  Madeleine  and  me  with  malicious  lies.  There 
can  be  no  harmony  in  this  troupe  if  her  name  remains 
upon  its  rolls ;  yet  if  a  single  person  here  has  a  word  in 
her  defence,  let  him  be  heard." 

Now  there  were  some  in  that  company  who  secretly 
rejoiced  in  Trinette's  venom;  notably  Bonnenfant.,  who 
could  not  countenance  the  falling  of  the  leading  roles  to 
others  than  himself.  To  vaunt  his  rancour,  he  took 
Trinette's  part.  "  She  only  speaks  the  common  gossip/' 
he  shrugged.  "  Palsanguienne !  it  may  be  true." 

The  anger  pent  in  Bej  art's  heart  since  the  day  of  his 
ducking  had  brimmed  over  and  was  still  seething.  "If 
Bonnenfant  holds  with  the  j-j-jade,"  he  stammered  be 
tween  his  yellow  tusks,  "  let  him  go  too,  and  call  it  a 
g-g-good  riddance ! " 

"  Oh,  I  '11  go  readily  enough !  "  said  the  lawyer's  clerk, 
flashing  scorn  at  him  and  all  the  company.  "A  bank 
rupt  troupe,  forsooth,  without  a  tittle  of  credit!  The 
temptation  to  remain  is  not  over  great." 

The  figure  Trinette  made,  with  her  shapely  head 
tossed  back  and  her  bosom  heaving  to  the  rebellious 
flashes  of  her  eyes,  was  of  consummate  rage;  yet,  in 
truth,  she  was  more  pleased  than  angry — pleased  at  the 
opportunity  to  lash  Moliere  and  see  him  wince.  Though 
he  made  a  bold  show  of  despising  her,  she  knew  that  her 
scorn  of  him  would  take  malicious  root  in  his  impres 
sionable  heart.  Seeing  in  Bonnenfant  a  ready  tool  for 
her  malevolence,  she  drew  an  arm  about  his  waist. 
*'  Come,  my  friend,"  she  said,  leading  him  in  triumph 
toward  the  door;  "let  us  leave  this  sorry  company  to 
wallow  in  its  own  folly." 

Upon  the  threshold,  she  paused  to  grin  and  flout  con 
tempt  of  Moliere  and  his  lady-love.  "  A  callow  youth, 


EXIT    TRINETTE  221 

hissed  and  pelted  with  apples,  and  twiddled  with  love 
by  a  cast-off  favourite — diantre !  what  a  spectacle !  " 

With  this,  she  threw  open  the  door  and  drew  Bon- 
nenfant  into  the  darkening  street.  "  Farewell,  Moliere," 
she  laughed.  "  Of  all  the  dupes  in  France,  you  are  the 
greatest." 

Seemingly  frozen  by  her  words,  Moliere  stood  stiff  and 
silent,  his  features  bearing  witness  to  a  stress  of  shame, 
yes,  even  of  mistrust;  for  the  wanton  had  poisoned  his 
heart  with  misgiving. 

Divining  his  thoughts,  Madeleine  raised  a  pleading 
face.  What  under  heaven  could  she  say?  Deserted  by 
Modene !  That  fact  was  apparent,  and  that  she  abetted 
Moliere's  ambition  was  but  true — for  she  had  discerned 
in  him  a  talent  only  half  suspected  by  himself;  but 
that  her  love  was  a  blind  to  hide  her  chagrin — ah,  that 
was  something  only  her  word  could  disprove!  Even  if 
suspicion  and  jealousy  had  seared  his  heart,  she  must 
bow  her  head  and  endure,  for  there  were  the  evil  facts. 
A  cast-off  favourite!  That  was  what  she  appeared  to 
the  world — a  cast-off  favourite  plucking  a  fatuous  youth 
for  her  own  base  ends !  Her  answer  ?  There  was  none 
— could  be  none;  for  Trinette  had  marshalled  an  array 
of  evidence  too  strong  to  be  refuted  save  by  time.  She 
must  set  her  teeth  hard  and,  by  her  devotion,  prove  it  a 
calumny.  So  thought  Madeleine,  as  she  searched  Mo 
liere's  face  for  a  ray  of  pity. 

The  silence  was  broken  by  Chapelle,  who,  seeing  the 
actors  glowering  or  tittering,  struck  his  cane  upon  the 
floor  and  laughed.  '  What  a  spectacle ! '  she  said,  and 
I  say  what  indeed!  A  comrade  is  hissed,  and  some  of 
you  rejoice  secretly!  Another  is  insulted  by  a  shame 
less  rig  and  others  of  you  stand  there  snickering!  If 


222  FAME'S    PATHWAY 

actors  are  merely  j  ealous  snivellers,  morbleu !  I  am  glad 
I  am  not  an  actor." 

True  words  they  seemed  to  Madeleine,  abusive  words 
to  those  who  cowered  beneath  their  sting.  The  bowels 
of  some  chafed  over  them;  but  to  Moliere  they  gave  the 
valour  to  snatch  victory  from  defeat. 

"  Comrades/'  cried  he,  "  Monsieur  Chapelle  has 
spoken  truly.  This  is  not  the  moment  for  jealousy  or 
rancour.  The  day  has  brought  us  a  defeat,  but  not  a 
rout.  If  you  hold  me  to  be  the  cause  of  our  discomfiture, 
let  me  retire  from  the  leadership  to  serve  in  the  ranks." 

The  pusillanimous  members  of  the  company  stared 
and  knew  not  what  to  say.  There  was  a  stir  among  the 
braver  folk  and  frank  avowals  of  approval. 

"  Loyalty  will  not  pay  the  tennis  master  nor  the  chan 
dler,"  said  Pinel  at  last.  "  Mgrescit  medendo." 

Madeleine  looked  steadily  back  into  Pinel's  question 
ing  face  as  she  answered  him.  "  You  have  heard  Tris 
tan's  generous  offer  of  a  play,  and  his  willingness  to 
make  appeal  to  his  royal  patron  in  our  behalf.  I  have 
sold  my  house.  The  proceeds  are  at  the  disposal  of  the 
Illustrious  Theatre.  I  speak  the  sentiments  of  my 
brother  Joseph  and  my  sister  Genevieve.  Their  hearts, 
like  mine,  are  in  this  enterprise." 

"Ay,"  stammered  Bejart,  "  r-r-rather  than  let  a  hussy 
wreck  this  undertaking,  I  '11  p-p-pledge  my  soul  to  it." 

"And  I  too,"  echoed  Genevieve. 

"  Madeleine  has  spoken  brave  words,"  said  Moliere, 
"  and  they  have  been  bravely  furthered  by  her  kin.  Let 
us  swear  loyalty.  If  there  be  more  traitors  to  the  cause, 
let  them  retire  forthwith." 

He  had  watched  Madeleine  eagerly  while  she  spoke, 
wondering  whether  she  would  forgive  his  doubt  of  her, 


EXIT    TRINETTE 

for,  by  her  generous  words,  his  loyalty  was  kindled  anew. 
If  she  had  been  a  dalliance,  he  reflected,  she  was  one 
no  more,  by  the  saving  grace  of  his  love  and  her  nobility. 

One  by  one  his  comrades  stepped  forth  to  avow  their 
allegiance,  some  openly  frank,  others  looking  furtively 
about.  One  by  one  they  left  the  cold  tennis-court,  the 
actors  morose  and  silent,  the  actresses  gayly,  on  the  arms 
of  Moliere's  friends.  When  the  last  had  gone,  when  he 
and  Madeleine  stood  alone,  she  turned  to  him,  saying, 
"  Never  shall  I  forget  that  you  took  my  part  to-day — 
never,  dearest,  never ! " 

He  whispered  to  her  that  she  had  given  him  the  forti 
tude  to  face  defeat,  and  their  hands  clasped,  their  lips 
were  near  to  meeting;  yet,  even  in  that  fair  moment,  he 
seemed  to  hear  through  the  silent  theatre  the  echo  of 
Trinette's  angry  words;  "Farewell,  Moliere.  Of  all 
the  dupes  in  France,  you  are  the  greatest." 

The  temptation  to  heed  them  grew  strong  within  him, 
even  a  desire  to  make  a  prodigal's  return  to  his  father's 
house;  but  his  faith  in  himself  was  still  the  youthful 
faith  that  lessens  only  with  the  lessening  years. 


BOOK    THE    THIRD 

"Even  if  love  be  omitted  from  Madeleine's  relations 
rvith  Moliere,  a  big  and  beautiful  part  remains  for  her 
to  play  beside  the  great  man — the  part  of  friendship  and 
advice,  of  a  vigilant  protection  that  mas  almost  ma 
ternal." 

GUSTAVE  LARROUMET. 


CHAPTER    I 

THE    TOILS    OF    USURY 

"  THIRTEEN  livres,  five  sous ! "  sighed  Beys,  gazing  at 
the  coins  he  had  arranged  in  meagre  piles.  Made  thin 
by  a  year  of  tribulation,  this  poet,  once  so  round,  was 
now  a  sparse  frame  for  his  threadbare  doublet.  Star 
ing  dejectedly  at  the  day's  receipts,  he  drew  his  belt 
tighter  to  assuage  his  hunger's  gnawing.  "  Thirteen 
livres,  five  sous !  "  he  sighed  once  more.  "  Not  a  tithe 
of  the  chandler's  account !  " 

"  Argumentum  ad  crumenam,"  lamented  George  Pinel, 
with  a  sickly  smile. 

"Argumentum  ad  stomachum"  sneered  Beys;  "  for  if 
the  rent  were  not  in  arrears,  the  bailiffs  dogging  our 
steps,  those  thirteen  livres  would  pay  for  the  filling  of 
our  stomachs.  When  the  porter,  the  rascally  fiddlers, 
the  candle  snuffer,  and  the  what-not  have  been  paid  for 
this  day's  representation,  there  '11  not  be  enough  left  to 
buy  a  pot  of  cabbage  soup.  Even  yon  worthless  dancer 
must  have  his  forty  sous." 

The  one  thus  stigmatised  was  Daniel  Mallet,  hired 
as  an  interluder  for  sombre  tragedies;  yet  even  his  steps 
had  failed  to  turn  the  disastrous  tide  besetting  the  Illus 
trious  Theatre  since  its  hapless  opening. 

A  year  had  passed  since  then — a  year  of  fruitless 
struggle  and  attendant  misery.  Only  once  had  the  cur 
rent  of  failure  been  stayed,  when,  as  Epicharis,  in  Tris 
tan  de  1'Hermite's  play,  Madeleine  had  won  such  meas- 


228  FAME'S   PATHWAY 

tire  of  renown  that,  for  a  fortnight,  coaches  rumbled  on 
the  pavement  costing  two  hundred  livres.  Moreover, 
following  Tristan's  appeal,  Gaston,  Due  d'Orleans,  uncle 
of  the  young  king,  gave  his  royal  protection  to  these 
players,  though  not  the  pension  they  so  sorely  needed. 

Piqued  by  this  triumph  of  Tristan,  Mareschal  had 
withdrawn  in  high  displeasure,  but  Nicolas  Desfontaines, 
author  of  a  dozen  tragedies,  j  oined  the  ill-starred  troupe. 
His  lugubrious  plays  giving  Madeleine  no  such  sympa 
thetic  part  as  Epicharis,  the  boxes  again  remained  un 
filled,  the  rowdy  host  in  the  pit  dwindling  to  a  cor 
poral's  guard.  Debts  accumulated  the  meanwhile,  and 
when  the  proceeds  of  the  sale  of  Madeleine's  house  were 
exhausted,  usurers  were  resorted  to  until  a  debtor's  gaol 
was  imminent.  The  words  of  Beys  brought  their  la 
mentable  status  home  to  these  luckless  players. 

"  We  may  harp  on  our  destitution,"  said  Genevieve 
Bejart  sadly,  "but  that  does  not  remedy  it." 

Madeleine  put  down  the  needle  with  which  she  was 
darning  a  time-worn  costume.  "  Be  of  good  heart,  sis 
ter,"  she  said.  "  In  a  fortnight,  we  shall  move  to  the 
Black  Cross  Tennis-Court.  The  quays  are  hard  by — 
with  boatmen  and  stevedores  to  fill  our  pit.  The  place 
Royale,  promenade  of  the  bourgeoisie,  is  near;  the  great 
hotels  d'Angouleme  and  Chavigny  will  bring  us  fash 
ionable  custom." 

Beys  rubbed  his  emaciated  paunch  dolefully.  "  An 
admirable  situation,"  said  he;  "yet  it  will  not  fill  an 
empty  stomach." 

"  Nor  will  it  prevent  Fra^ois  Pommier  from  clapping 
us  in  the  Grand  Chatelet,"  moaned  Pinel,  shaking  his 
despondent  head. 

Though   she  knew  not  whence  succour  might  come, 


THE   TOILS    OF   USURY 

Madeleine  spoke  with  hopeful  voice.  "  Fran£ois  Pom- 
mier  is  a  bourgeois  of  Paris,  not  a  Jew.  He  will  listen 
to  reason." 

Beys  answered  her  with  a  shrug.  "  There  is  no  reason 
in  a  troupe  of  players  managed  by  a  scatter-brained 
youth  and  his  lady-love." 

"  If  Moliere  were  here,  you  'd  not  dare  to  say  that, 
Monsieur  Beys !  " 

The  speaker  was  Catherine  Bourgeois,  who,  in  all  the 
fifteen  months  she  had  been  a  member  of  the  company, 
had  never  been  known  to  revile  a  comrade  or  bespeak  a 
quarrel.  When  he  realised  that  he  had  been  challenged 
by  this  meek  girl,  querulous  Beys  rubbed  his  ears  to 
make  sure  he  heard  aright. 

"Dare  not! — and  why  not,  pray?  "  he  gasped. 

Catherine  Bourgeois  sat  upon  a  battered  trunk,  show 
ing  red  stockings  in  need  of  darning,  and  slippers  down 
at  the  heel.  A  slim  girl,  as  Beys  saw  her,  pale,  chestnut- 
haired,  and  of  a  gentleness  that  hinted  not  her  daring, 
save  for  the  fire  that  glowed  in  her  eyes  as  they  glanced 
in  the  candle  light. 

"  You  dare  not,  Monsieur  Beys,  because  Moliere  is  a 
braver  man  than  you  and  a  better  actor.  Kemember,  too, 
that  Madeleine  serves  our  cause  unselfishly.  For  the 
asking,  she  might  join  the  royal  troupe.  Fie,  Beys! 
when  Trinette  left  the  company,  spite  went  with  her." 

Shivering  in  that  cold  tiring  room,  their  pinched  faces 
girdling  a  fireless  brazier,  were  all  the  actors  save  two. 
Moliere  was  haggling  with  the  tennis  master  for  a  can 
cellation  of  the  lease;  Joseph  Bejart,  having  gone  to 
Angers  in  the  spring  to  have  his  stammering  cured,  was 
travelling  with  a  troupe  of  strolling  players  to  earn  the 
doctor's  fee.  The  absence  of  these  dominant  spirits  gave 


230  FAME'S    PATHWAY 

Beys  courage;  yet,  while  the  girl  spoke,  he  could  find 
no  sign  of  sympathy  for  the  rebellion  he  longed  to  in 
cite,  till  she  referred  to  Trinette.  Then  a  glance  of 
envy  crossed  the  face  of  La  Malingre. 

"  Trinette  had  the  good  sense  to  leave  this  luckless 
troupe,"  she  declared. 

"  Thy  words  belie  thee ! "  cried  Catherine  Bourgeois ; 
"  Trinette  was  driven  from  this  troupe  by  one  accord." 

La  Malingre  frowned  her  pretty  forehead  into  scorn 
ful  furrows.  "  Lucky  girl !  for  is  she  not  a  member  of 
the  Troupe  du  Marais?  Morbleu!  since  the  day  of  our 
opening,  modish  justaucorps  and  manly  hats  with  plumes 
have  been  as  scarce  in  our  tiring  room  as  silver  livres." 

Beys  could  contain  himself  no  longer.  Nodding  sat 
isfaction  and  rubbing  his  hands,  he  smiled  and  cleared 
his  throat.  "  You  see,  my  friends,  you  see !  Though  we 
drove  Trinette  away,  she  is  in  clover.  For  my  part,  I 
have  had  enough  of  chasing  rainbows." 

Pinel  the  scribe  echoed  these  rebellious  sentiments. 
"  It  was  a  sorry  day  for  me  when  that  lad  Moliere  in 
duced  me  to  forswear  scrivening.  Alas!  my  fingers  are 
now  too  numb  to  ply  the  pen.  Multa  docet  fames!  " 

Though  Clerin  felt  the  truth  of  the  argument,  he 
merely  sighed,  he,  at  least,  having  a  loyal  heart.  Daniel 
Mallet,  the  dancer,  paid  forty  sous  when  he  pirouetted 
and  thirty-five  when  he  did  not,  was  content  with  his 
lot ;  so  he  gave  no  sign  of  approval.  Having  a  thirteenth 
tragedy  to  inflict  upon  his  luckless  comrades,  Desfon- 
taines,  the  new  member,  was  averse  to  sedition ;  while  the 
players  hired  to  fill  the  ranks  thinned  by  the  defection 
of  Bonnenfant  and  the  absence  of  Bejart  felt  themselves 
to  be  without  the  right  to  protest  so  long  as  their  meagre 
salaries  were  forthcoming. 


THE    TOILS    OF   USURY  231 

Seeing  the  rebellion  he  had  incited  on  the  point  of 
fizzling,  Beys  began  its  propaganda  anew:  "We  have 
failed  ignominiously ;  and  if  we  move  across  the  Seine, 
we  shall  only  add  to  our  obligations  with  no  more  new 
hope  of  requital." 

Madeleine  realised  the  wisdom  of  this  contention,  yet 
dared  not  admit  it  openly.  Since  the  departure  of 
Trinette,  her  love  for  Moliere  had  become  a  thankful 
passion,  glorifying  him  with  its  warmth — a  faith  behold 
ing  in  him  genius  where  others  found  only  folly;  so  the 
matter  in  hand,  as  she  saw  it,  was  to  undo  the  effect  of 
Beys'  treachery  as  speedily  as  possible. 

"  To  abandon  our  enterprise  will  not  pay  its  debts," 
she  said,  in  that  cheering  voice  of  hers.  "  Each  member 
of  this  company  has  signed  its  covenant.  To  betray 
that  trust  is  to  become  a  vile  traitor." 

There  was  some  murmuring  at  this,  till  Catherine 
Bourgeois  spoke  to  much  purpose.  "  I,  for  one,  shall 
remain  loyal,"  she  said  in  a  positive  tone. 

"  And  I,"  echoed  Clerin  in  a  fluttering  voice. 

Pinel  hung  his  head  and  was  silent.  Beys  vented  a 
grunt  or  two  and  shifted  his  feet.  His  mouth  was 
twitching,  and  he  would  have  voiced  sedition  afresh, 
had  not  Fran£ois  Tristan  de  1'Hermite  burst  into  the 
tiring  room,  the  fierceness  of  his  moustache  tempered  by 
the  radiance  of  the  smile  beneath  it. 

"  Good  news,  my  friends ! "  he  exclaimed  exultantly. 
"  His  Highness,  my  patron,  commands  you  to  the  Lux 
embourg  for  a  fete  he  will  give  some  six  weeks  hence. 
I  am  to  pen  a  ballet;  you,  his  players,  are  to  inter 
pret  it.  The  troupe  of  the  theatre  du  Marais  he 
has  commanded  too;  so  it  behoves  you  to  put  it  to 
shame." 


FAME'S   PATHWAY 

Here  was  a  break  in  the  gloom.  Smiles  replaced 
frowns;  depressed  hearts  beat  hopefully,  the  prospect 
of  appearing  at  court  gladdening  all  save  Beys.  "  Thy 
royal  master  is  notorious  for  his  stinginess,"  he  said. 
"  What  boots  it  if  we  play  at  the  Luxembourg  and  we 
be  not  paid  ?  " 

Cloaked  and  spurred,  Tristan  drew  himself  up 
proudly.  "  Beys,  thine  ears  are  as  long  as  thy  face, 
else  thou  wouldst  see  that,  whether  this  troupe  be  paid 
or  not,  its  credit  will  be  renewed,  once  it  has  appeared 
at  court;  and  credit  is  as  necessary  to  a  debtor  as  wine 
to  a  drunkard  like  thyself." 

With  a  coward's  self-concern,  Beys  recoiled  before 
this  poet  with  a  rapier  dangling  beneath  his  cloak. 
"  Alack,"  said  he,  "  would  that  I  had  the  price  of  a 
flagon ! " 

While  her  comrades  laughed  at  the  discomfited  wine- 
bibber,  Madeleine  went  toward  the  girl  who  had  so 
bravely  defended  her.  "  Catherine  Bourgeois,"  she 
said,  "  I  owe  you  a  debt  of  gratitude.  I  cannot  thank 
you  too  sincerely." 

The  girl's  eyes  met  hers  tenderly.  "  I  would  be  your 
friend,"  she  murmured,  seizing  her  hand  impulsively  and 
pressing  it  to  her  lips. 

Tears  brimmed  in  Madeleine's  eyes  as  she  kissed  her. 
"  My  dear  child,"  she  said  affectionately,  "  I  am  very 
grateful  for  your  friendship." 

The  girl  clung  to  her  fondly.  "  They  are  jealous," 
she  whispered ;  "  Madelon  Malingre,  I  mean,  and  that 
scurvy  Beys — jealous  of  your  talent,  jealous  because 
they  realise  that  you  are  far  above  them.  Often  I  have 
had  to  listen  when  they  talked  against  you,  and  be 
cause  I  was  the  youngest,  I  have  held  my  tongue  until 


THE   TOILS   OF   USURY  233 

they  thought  I  had  none;  but  to-day  I  could  hold  it  no 
longer.  Ah,  Madeleine  Bejart,  if  ever  you  have  need 
of  a  friend " 

Here  her  voice  faltered,  for  she  was  an  emotional 
creature  schooled  to  diffidence  by  the  fear  of  disclosing 
the  depth  of  her  feelings.  Being  herself  sympathetic, 
Madeleine  understood  all  she  had  said,  all  she  had  left 
unsaid.  She  was  on  the  point  of  replying,  but  Mo- 
liere  entered  the  tiring  room,  and  his  dejected  face  told 
her  that  he  bore  ill-tidings.  In  his  wake  came  Fran£ois 
Pommier,  the  usurer,  and  she  saw  by  the  sneer  on  the 
coarse  lip  curling  beneath  his  hooked  nose  that  his  pres 
ence  boded  no  good. 

Worn  frail  by  the  strife  of  a  year,  Moliere  let  his 
head  fall  upon  his  breast.  "  Comrades,"  he  said  in  a 
despondent  voice,  "  Maitre  Gallois  agrees  to  cancel  our 
lease,  but  Monsieur  Pommier  here  demands  immediate 
payment  of  the  moneys  we  have  borrowed  and  will  listen 
to  no  argument  of  mine." 

Twisting  and  tangling  his  lean  hands  together,  Pom 
mier  spoke  in  tones  both  wheedling  and  threatening. 
"  Did  the  matter  concern  me  alone,  I  might  be  mag 
nanimous,  but  I  represent  the  Sieur  Baulot,  who  has 
acted  through  me.  The  loan  is  due;  he  demands  pay 
ment.  As  his  agent,  I  am  forced  to  exact  it." 

An  inveterate  gambler,  Tristan  de  1'Hermite  was  prac 
tised  in  the  art  of  hoodwinking  creditors.  Folding  his 
arms  haughtily  and  rattling  his  spurs,  he  came  to 
Moliere's  aid.  "  Hold  thy  tongue,  Pommier,  until  this 
troupe  has  fulfilled  the  command  I  bring  it  to  appear 
before  Monsieur,  then  talk  of  payment  for  thy  sordid 
loans." 

But  Fra^ois   Pommier  knew  this  gambling  poet  of 


FAME'S    PATHWAY 

old.  "  Pish !  "  said  he,  "  pay  thine  own  debts,  ere  thou 
ride  so  high  a  horse." 

Bristling  his  moustache,  Tristan  drew  his  rapier  partly 
from  its  sheath.  "  For  a  denier,  I  'd  spit  thee !  "  he 
muttered  between  his  teeth,  then  slammed  the  blade 
home  with  a  ring.  "  Nay,  on  second  thought,  I  '11  not 
tarnish  good  steel  with  blood  so  base ! " 

Seeing  no  advantage  in  a  quarrel,  Moliere,  dispirited 
from  wrangling  and  sick  at  heart,  yet  gladdened  by 
Tristan's  news,  turned  to  Pommier  with  a  gesture  of 
appeal.  "  In  view  of  this  royal  command,  will  you  not 
extend  the  time  of  payment  ?  " 

Pommier's  brow  darkened.  "  I  '11  not  be  put  off  with 
empty  words.  Thy  father  is  well-to-do.  If  he  will  not 
pay  thy  debts,  then  go  to  gaol." 

Closing  his  eyes  to  the  vision  these  words  had  formed 
in  his  overwrought  mind  of  a  stern  father's  cruel  re 
buff,  the  young  actor  drew  a  hand  wearily  across  his 
forehead.  "  Rather  than  appeal  to  him,  gladly  will  I 
go  to  gaol,"  he  sighed,  between  the  throes  of  his 
anguish. 

But  the  usurer  could  see  no  profit  in  incarcerating  the 
lad  save  as  a  last  resort.  "  Thy  friend,  Monsieur 
Chapelle,  is  both  rich  and  generous,"  said  he,  seeking  a 
loophole. 

"Alas,  I  cannot  turn  to  him,  even  were  I  so  inten- 
tioned,  for  so  strong  a  hold  has  the  wine-cup  taken  of 
him,  that  seldom  is  he  now  of  a  mind  to  tell  whether  a 
plea  be  just  or  not.  Poor  Chapelle!  his  plight  is  even 
sorrier  than  mine." 

His  comrades  watched  anxiously  the  stooping, 
shuffling  man  opposed  to  him.  He,  searching  for  a  ray 
of  pity,  looked  at  Pommier ;  but  Pommier  was  looking  at 
the  ground. 


THE    TOILS    OF   USURY  235 

"  If  you  will  assign  to  me  the  daily  profits  of  your 
theatre,"  said  the  usurer,  "  I  will  accept  a  note  for  three 
hundred  livres  to  acquit  your  minor  obligations,  and  for 
one  of  seventeen  hundred,  I  will  accommodate  the  Sieur 
Baulot  with  the  five  hundred  livres  he  demands." 

"  Seventeen  hundred  livres  for  five  hundred ! "  ex 
claimed  Moliere.  "  Such  usury  is  damnable !  " 

"  Tut,  tut,  my  boy.  I  said  a  note,  not  ready  money. 
The  Sieur  Baulot  and  I  stand  to  lose  eleven  hundred, 
an  we  be  not  secured ! " 

Moliere  saw  that  this  tender  was  only  a  tightening  of 
the  noose;  yet,  having  been  the  organiser  of  the  Illus 
trious  Theatre,  having  shaped  its  policy  and  incurred 
its  debts,  he  felt  that,  if  any  one  must  suffer  for  its 
delinquencies,  it  should  be  he,  since  he  had  been  at  fault. 
Thinking  in  this  way,  he  gulped  some  courage  into 
himself.  "  Pommier,"  he  said,  "  I  am  prepared  to  re 
quite,  by  the  tender  of  my  person  to  the  custody  of  the 
law,  the  debts  we  cannot  pay." 

Now  the  usurer  was  quite  willing  to  imprison  him,  but 
not  while  there  was  a  chance  to  squeeze  a  few  livres 
from  his  comrades.  He  knew  that  some  of  them  had 
friends  or  kinsfolk  to  whom  they  might  turn  in  their 
distress — knew  that  Madeleine's  mother  still  owned  a 
house  in  the  rue  de  la  Perle,  and  though  it  was  mort 
gaged,  he  could  see  a  profit  in  the  equity.  "  Not  so  fast 
in  thy  self-immolation,"  he  answered,  an  evil  grin 
spreading  over  his  blotched  face.  "  A  gaoling,  yes — 
but  not  for  thee  alone."  Turning,  he  addressed  the 
company.  "  Each  of  you  who  does  not  provide  a  bonds 
man  by  noon  to-morrow  to  sign  the  obligations  I  have 
demanded  must  take  the  consequences  of  the  law." 

Germain  Clerin  was  stoical,  and  Catherine  Bourgeois 
ready  to  accept  any  fate  that  was  shared  by  Madeleine, 


236  FAME'S   PATHWAY 

but  to  Pinel,  Beys,  and  Madelon  Malingre,  the  usurer's 
threat  came  like  a  cruel  thunder-clap  from  a  sky  made 
serene  by  Moliere's  offer  to  bear  the  brunt  of  their 
troubles.  "  The  consequences  of  the  law !  "  they  ex 
claimed,  trembling  at  the  lips  and  gripping  each  other 
by  the  arm  to  steady  themselves  against  the  apprehen 
sion  these  words  inspired. 

Pommier  turned  his  bent  body  toward  the  door.  "  Ay," 
said  he ;  "  in  this  case,  a  soj  ourn  in  the  Grand  Chatelet  at 
the  will  of  the  civil  lieutenant.  My  friends,  I  bid  you 
good  day." 


CHAPTER  II 

THE  ANONYMOUS  NOTE 

AFTER  the  usurer  left  the  tiring  room,  the  players  sat 
there  moodily  nursing  their  misery,  even  Madeleine  be 
ing  unable  to  find  a  cheering  word.  Knowing  the  hor 
rors  of  the  gaols  and  seeing  no  escape  therefrom,  Beys 
stealthily  withdrew  his  lessened  form,  with  a  firm  re 
solve  to  spend,  in  a  farewell  night  of  revelry,  the  thir 
teen  livres  he  had  pocketed  during  the  consternation 
caused  by  Pommier's  threat. 

Tristan  spoke  hopefully  as  he  went.  "  That  pinch- 
fist  dare  not  gaol  you,"  said  he,  "  you,  the  troupe  of  His 
Royal  Highness !  "  But  his  words  fell  upon  deaf  ears, 
for  these  miserable  players  had  just  seen  the  redoubtable 
poet  routed  by  the  very  scrimp  he  flouted.  In  the  for 
lorn  hope  of  finding  bondsmen,  the  others  followed  on 
his  spurred  heels,  till  all  had  gone  except  Madeleine 
and  Moliere.  Loath  to  leave  her  new-found  friend, 
Catherine  Bourgeois  only  went  at  her  intercession,  Mad 
eleine  wishing  to  have  a  word  with  Moliere  singly. 

When  they  were  alone,  she  laid  a  hand  gently  upon 
his  shoulder.  "  Is  there  no  way  ?  "  she  asked. 

"  None  that  I  see,"  he  answered,  overcome  by  his 
wretchedness. 

With  pleading  eyes  and  lips,  she  leaned  toward  him. 
"  Surely  your  father  would  not  see  his  first-born  im 
prisoned — for  the  sake  of  the  family  honour,  if  for 
nought  else." 

237 


238  FAME'S   PATHWAY 

"  Never  will  I  appeal  to  him ;  never,  while  I  live !  " 

"  I  shall  find  a  way/'  she  answered,  wrapping  her 
threadbare  cloak  about  her  and  turning  toward  the 
door.  Her  beauty  was  enhanced  by  love  of  him,  her 
fairest  possession;  but  he  saw  not  the  devotion  that 
brightened  her  as  she  went  forth  alone,  since  he,  too 
dispirited  to  follow,  was  gazing  at  the  floor. 

For  a  long  time  he  sat  with  his  face  buried  despond 
ently  between  his  hands;  for,  try  as  he  might,  he  could 
see  no  rift  in  the  clouds  besetting  him.  A  feeble,  storm- 
tossed  craft  he  seemed,  over-fraught  with  ambition;  yet 
knew  that  idle  metaphors  would  not  alter  his  state. 
Though  the  gloom  encompassing  him  seemed  im 
penetrable,  and  the  Chatelet  his  ultimate  fate,  like 
Madeleine,  he  must  find  a  way.  Inspired  by  the  knowl 
edge  of  her  unselfishness,  he  went  forth  into  the 
darkened  street. 

Through  ill-lighted  Paris  he  threaded  his  way,  the 
December  cold  piercing  him  to  the  marrow.  For  the 
rascals  whom  he  passed  in  the  night  he  had  a  fellow- 
feeling — vagabonds  like  himself,  crushed  and  pitilessly 
borne  down  by  fate.  Passing  the  great  Hotel  de  Nevers, 
he  heard  the  strains  of  violins.  Thinking  of  the  cav 
aliers  and  ladies  measuring  idle  steps  whilst  he  and  other 
hungry  outcasts  shivered  in  the  winter's  night,  he  longed 
to  right  the  wrongs  oppressing  France. 

To  hold  the  noble  libertines  and  hypocrites  up  to  pub 
lic  scorn  would  wound  them  in  their  pride,  he  mused; 
while  the  people,  finding  them  mere  mortals,  would  no 
longer  fear  and  reverence  them  as  demigods.  A  glorious 
work  indeed,  to  paint  a  truthful  picture  of  humanity! 
Would  that  he  had  the  courage  and  skill  to  lay  bare  to 
mankind  its  foibles  and  vices ! 


THE    ANONYMOUS    NOTE          239 

But  dreams  such  as  these  would  not  requite  Pommier 
or  allay  his  own  misery,  so  he  hastened  his  steps  in 
search  of  Madeleine.  At  their  humble  lodging  he 
learned  that  she  had  gone  elsewhere;  bethinking  him  of 
her  mother's  house  in  the  rue  de  la  Perle,  he  crossed  the 
pont  St.  Michel. 

In  the  rambling  streets  of  the  Cite,  he  came  upon  a 
haunt  of  his  student  days — the  Fir-Cone  Tavern.  A 
drunken  man  staggered  forth,  followed  by  a  ruffian, 
who  felled  him  with  a  cruel  blow  and  deftly  stripped 
him  of  his  cloak  and  wallet.  Seeing  the  man  thus 
robbed  lying  prostrate  in  the  slimy  street,  Moliere 
hastened  to  his  side.  By  the  misty  light  from  the 
tavern  window,  he  saw  with  horror  that  this  drunkard 
was  Chapelle,  his  open-handed  friend  and  benefactor. 

"  Claude,  Claude !  "  he  cried,  in  an  effort  to  rouse 
him;  but  the  young  man  was  in  a  state  too  maudlin  for 
him  to  do  aught  but  blink  his  besotted  eyes. 

Moliere  placed  him  upon  his  tottering  legs  and  led 
him  staggering  toward  the  quarter  where  he  dwelt. 
Alas,"  he  thought,  "  to  think  one  so  lovable  should  be 
the  victim  of  a  passion  so  dire — in  all  France,  there  is 
none  more  generous  or  brave !  "  Ah,  how  sadly  had  life 
changed  since  the  time  when  Chapelle  and  he  were 
students  of  Gassendi!  To  the  reeling  friend  beside 
him,  the  epicureanism  of  the  master  had  become  un 
bridled  indulgence;  while  the  world,  with  its  pitfalls, 
was  fast  making  of  himself  a  cynic — or  at  least  a  Stoic. 

But  Chapelle's  staggering  left  scant  time  for  medita 
tion,  and  Moliere  was  well  nigh  exhausted  when  the 
house  he  sought  was  reached.  The  servant  who  answered 
his  knocking  shrugged  his  shoulders  nonchalantly,  for 
so  immoderate  a  tippler  had  his  master  become  that  he 


240  FAME'S   PATHWAY 

was  known  far  and  wide  as  the  greatest  drunkard  of 
the  Marais  quarter.  To  leave  his  friend  in  such  a  state 
rent  Moliere's  heart;  yet  he  knew  he  must  hasten  on  lest 
he  lose  trace  of  Madeleine.  On  the  threshold  of  her 
mother's  house  he  paused,  the  fear  of  Marie  Herve's 
tongue  strong  upon  him. 

Louis  Bejart,  her  young  son,  came  toward  him  with 
his  finger  on  his  lips.  "  Madeleine  is  with  mother  and 
Genevieve,"  he  whispered,  "  and  they  are  having  a 
querulous  time.  Morbleu !  you  should  have  seen  mother's 
rage  when  Madeleine  told  her  that  she  must  mortgage 
our  house  to  keep  all  of  you  from  gaol.  '  An  indolent 
scamp/  she  dubbed  you,  '  a  worthless  scapegrace.'  Take 
my  advice  and  go  not  near  her." 

The  boy  tiptoed  away,  leaving  Moliere  tremulous. 
The  remains  of  a  supper  lay  before  his  famished  eyes. 
Pouring  out  a  beaker  of  wine,  he  drained  it,  then  fell 
to  eating.  Thus  fortified,  he  took  new  hope.  Should 
he  permit  Madeleine  to  jeopard  her  mother's  sole 
possession  for  this  luckless  venture,  he  asked  himself; 
though  not  without  many  a  qualm  at  his  own  timidity. 
Before  he  could  arouse  sufficient  courage  to  face  Marie 
Herve's  ire,  her  little  daughter  Armande  toddled  into 
the  room. 

No  longer  a  baby  in  arms,  she  was  now  his  fast 
friend;  for,  whenever  her  mother  confided  her  to  Mad 
eleine's  care,  he  became  the  one  to  quell  her  tantrums  by 
making  of  himself  a  hobby  horse,  a  bear,  or  any  animal 
her  childish  fancy  dictated.  His  little  sweetheart  he 
called  her,  and  when  she  came  toward  him,  her  chubby 
arms  outstretched  and  her  little  eyes  beaming  upon  him 
provokingly,  he  caught  her  in  his  arms  and  swung  her 
upon  his  knee. 


THE    ANONYMOUS    NOTE 

"  Naughty  Mo-mo,"  she  lisped,  "  naughty  Mo-mo." 

"  And  why,  pray,  am  I  naughty  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  'Cause  Mo-mo  no  love  Armande  as  much  as  he 
love  Mada." 

"  You  are  not  as  big  as  Madeleine,"  he  protested. 
"  There  is  not  as  much  of  you  to  love." 

She  stared  at  him  with  penetrating  baby  eyes.  "  When 
Armande  big,  Mo-mo  love  Armande  much  ? "  she 
asked. 

"  Yes,  little  sweetheart,  yes,"  he  cried,  kissing  her 
wilful  lips ;  "  that  is,  if  you  mind  me  in  everything." 

"  No !  no ! "  cried  the  child,  shaking  her  curly  head 
emphatically. 

"  Well,  we  sha'n't  quarrel  about  that  now,"  he  laughed, 
"  because  we  're  going  to  ride  a  cock-horse." 

Throwing  one  leg  across  the  other,  he  trotted  her 
vigorously  upon  his  outstretched  foot  and  tried  to 
^fathom  the  little,  sparkling  eyes  that  looked  so  persist 
ently  into  his  own,  so  mystifying  did  they  seem  to  him, 
iso  perverse  and  yet  so  lovable.  He  longed  to  make  of 
this  dear  little  girl  a  gentle,  God-fearing  woman  such 
as  his  own  mother  had  been ;  but  the  opening  of  the  door 
brought  this  generous  dream  to  an  end,  as  Marie  Herve 
came  screeching  from  the  adjoining  room  with  Madeleine 
in  her  frumpish  trail. 

"  There  he  is,  the  runagate,  corrupting  my  baby  as 
he  has  corrupted  you — but  that  he  shall  not !  "  she  cried, 
seizing  the  child,  who  protested  with  vigorous  kicks  and 
screams. 

Madeleine  placed  an  anticipatory  hand  on  Moliere's 
arm. 

"Look  at  him  sitting  there  placidly,"  hissed  the  shrew, 
"  after  stealing  the  roof  from  over  my  head  to  keep  his 


FAME'S   PATHWAY 

worthless  carcass  out  of  gaol !  A  cockatrice,  as  Heaven 
is  my  witness !  May  the  devil  get  his  soul !  " 

Pale  with  rage,  Moliere  sprang  to  his  feet.  "  Madam, 
I  am  no  party  to  this  plan  to  dispossess  you,"  he  replied 
savagely. 

"  Listen  to  the  hell-hound !  "  laughed  Marie  Herve. 

"  Nay,  mother,"  protested  Madeleine ;  "  it  is  true. 
Unless  Genevieve  and  I  obtain  sureties,  we  must  go  to  a 
loathsome  prison.  Surely  you  would  not  willingly  see 
your  children  brought  to  such  a  pass !  " 

"A  house  sold  over  your  head,  and  now  one  over 
mine,  because  this  rogue  would  be  a  play-actor  when 
he  was  born  to  be  a  jerry  sneak/'  whined  Marie  Herve. 

"  Madam !  "  cried  Moliere,  quivering  with  anger. 

"  Come,"  said  Madeleine,  fairly  pushing  him  away,  it 
being  clear  to  her  mind  that  her  mother  would  sign  the 
bond.  To  quiet  him  was  no  easy  matter,  for  he  was 
gesticulating  wildly  and  endeavouring  to  reach  the  door 
she  had  pulled  to  in  his  face;  but  she  had  great  self- 
possession  and  a  practical  mind.  "  Dear,"  she  said, 
"  perhaps  if  you  had  borne  eleven  children  and  buried 
six  of  them,  and  your  husband  too,  your  tongue  would 
be  unruly.  Before  passing  judgment  upon  her,  pray 
remember  that  I  asked  you  to  beg  assistance  of  your 
father." 

His  sense  of  justice  forced  him  to  admit  the  fairness 
of  this  plea,  even  to  acknowledging,  as  they  walked 
through  tortuous  Paris,  that,  in  the  matter  of  parents, 
the  advantage  was  hers. 

The  dark  stairs  they  climbed  at  last  seemed  to  them 
unduly  long,  their  lodging  a  joyless,  dreary  place;  for 
the  day's  events  had  left  them  disheartened.  In  vain 
effort  to  lighten  their  gloom,  Madeleine  hummed  a  tune, 


as  she  passed  to  and  fro;  but  Moliere,  sinking  upon  a 
rickety  chair,  sat  gazing  at  the  cheerless  tallow  dip 
burning  upon  the  table  beside  him,  until  his  wearied  eyes 
fell  upon  a  note,  the  edge  of  which  had  been  placed 
beneath  the  candlestick.  Seeing  that  it  was  addressed 
to  him  and  in  a  feminine  hand,  he  removed  it  stealthily 
while  Madeleine's  back  was  turned  and  read  by  the 
flickering  light  these  words: 

"Modfene  is  in  Paris." 

There  was  no  signature,  no  clew  to  the  sender,  and 
he  crumpled  the  paper  angrily,  these  insidious  words 
recalling  to  his  tired  mind  the  picture  of  a  curled  and 
bewigged  cavalier  gazing  at  Madeleine  from  his  seat 
upon  the  stage — recalling  the  sneer  upon  his  lips,  the 
look  of  surfeit  in  his  eyes.  It  seemed  to  him,  while  she 
hummed  her  cheerful  tune,  that  he  could  never  quite 
forget  the  past  she  had  avowed  was  dead;  for  in  his 
tortured  heart  there  was  a  longing  for  a  love  untarnished 
by  memories  such  as  these — a  longing  to  be  cared  for 
by  some  one  as  pure  and  innocent  as  little  Armando 
Bejart  had  seemed  to  him  this  day.  Yet  he  was  quick 
to  see  the  egotism  and  injustice  of  these  vain  desires; 
and  fearful  lest  Madeleine  should  suspect  the  treachery 
of  his  heart,  he  went  to  her  quickly,  clasped  her  round 
the  waist,  and  after  he  had  kissed  her,  showed  her  the 
crumpled  note. 

"  Look,  dear,"  said  he.  "  Who  could  have  written 
this?" 

"  Trinette !  "  she  answered,  with  a  woman's  intuition ; 
seeing  a  poisoned  menace  in  the  note,  she  hid  her  face 
upon  his  breast  lest  he  divine  her  fears. 


CHAPTER  III 

TRINETTE  RE-ENTERS 

FRANCOIS  POMMIER  was  provided  with  bondsmen  of 
doubtful  solvency — Marie  Herve  signing  the  obligations 
of  Moliere  and  her  daughters.  The  daily  profits  of 
the  play-house  were  assigned  the  usurer  as  well.  Alack, 
had  there  been  daily  profits,  the  Illustrious  Theatre  had 
been  in  a  fair  way  to  prosper.  Its  predicament  was 
sore.  The  Black  Cross  Tennis-Court,  over  by  the  St. 
Paul  gate,  remained  as  empty  as  its  predecessor — the 
stevedores  and  boatmen,  the  bourgeoisie  and  gentlefolk 
holding  aloof. 

While  striving  to  please  a  soulless  public,  Moliere 
fretted  and  fumed  and  almost  lost  heart,  yet  remained 
so  loyal  to  his  muse  of  tragedy  that  even  Desfontaines 
was  at  a  loss  for  gloom  to  sacrifice  upon  her  altar.  As 
Trinette  crossed  not  his  path,  nor  Modene  either,  Mad 
eleine  was  content  to  see  him  pine  for  his  ideals,  while 
pitying  him,  in  the  hope  that  eventually  he  might  awaken 
from  his  fatuous  dreams. 

Meanwhile,  the  discouragement  of  fellow-actors  grew 
until  the  return  of  Bejart  brought  a  measure  of  hope  to 
them.  His  stammering  was  unallayed,  yet  so  was  his 
loyalty;  and  when  he  learned  that  Beys  was  inciting 
rebellion,  he  cursed  him  for  a  traitor.  Seeing  that 
craven  quake  in  his  time-worn  shoes,  Pinel  took  warning. 
Obtaining  some  copy  work  from  an  advocate,  he  kept 
the  wolf  from  his  rickety  door.  Germain  Clerin  pawned 
his  crimson  boot-hose. 

244 


TRINETTE   RE-ENTERS  245 

In  these,  and  divers  other  straitened  ways,  the  souls 
were  kept  in  the  bodies  of  these  actors  until  Tristan  de 
1'Hermite  brought  the  grateful  news  that  Monsieur 
awaited  their  coming  at  his  palace  of  the  Luxembourg. 
With  hearts  beating  hopefully,  they  tramped  across  the 
Seine,  each  actor  bearing  shoulder-wise  upon  his  staff. 
a  bundle  of  faded  finery. 

Madeleine  alone  was  depressed,  for  the  Marais  play 
ers  were  commanded,  too,  and  their  coming  meant  the 
coming  of  Trinette.  Yet  when  she  saw  the  lights  of  the 
palace  gleaming  through  the  leafless  trees  of  its  superb 
garden,  her  heart  beat  excitedly,  for  the  prospect  of 
appearing  at  court  was  exhilarating  even  to  her. 

A  stage  had  been  erected  in  the  salle  des  fetes.  There, 
in  Tristan's  ballet,  Monsieur  himself  was  to  dance, 
assisted  by  gay  coryphees  from  his  dissolute  court.  The 
verses  accompanying  the  entrees  were  to  be  recited  by 
the  Illustrious  Theatre;  but  first,  the  Marais  players 
were  to  give  a  comedy. 

Ladies  in  coifs  and  point  lace  collars,  cavaliers  with 
flowing  curls  and  siken  justaucorps! — the  audience 
Moliere  saw  while  peering  between  the  folds  of  the 
arras  screening  the  temporary  stage  from  view  was  in 
deed  a  gay  medley.  In  the  glow  of  a  hundred  candles 
sat  Monsieur,  the  royal  libertine  and  traitor,  his  base 
soul  hidden  behind  his  spiritual  eyes.  Beside  him  was 
his  austere  wife,  anxious  for  his  moral  welfare.  When 
she  reproved  him  for  his  intention  to  dance  in  a  ballet 
with  low-born  actors,  he  whistled  a  tune  and  pulled  his 
elf-locks  derisively.  These  antics,  however,  brought 
no  smile  to  the  imperious  lip  of  La  Grande  Mademoiselle, 
his  Minerva-like  daughter;  for  she  was  too  elevated  in 
the  belief  that  she  was  born  to  wed  a  king  to  smile  in 


246  FAME'S    PATHWAY 

the  presence  of  her  father's  guards — inferior  beings 
wearing  the  velvet  bandoliers  of  his  livery. 

At  Monsieur's  feet  a  greyhound  lolled  upon  the  par 
quetry;  behind  the  prince  stood  courtiers,  whose 
enamoured  eyes  gazed  meaningly  at  frail  dames 
d'honneur,  for,  while  the  violins,  the  lutes,  and  harpsi 
chords  played  sensuous  music,  the  scented  air  was  thick 
with  love  darts.  But  Moliere,  though  he  whiffed  the 
perfumes,  thought  not  of  the  lovers'  trysts  a-making. 
Gazing  through  the  arras,  his  eye  fell  on  the  Baron  de 
Modene,  standing  beside  his  noble  master,  young  Henry 
of  Lorraine,  fifth  Due  de  Guise  and  most  incontinent 
of  peers. 

A  blush  of  hate  coloured  the  young  actor's  face. 
Supercilious  Modene,  he  thought,  in  silks  and  brocades; 
he,  Moliere,  in  shabby  tinsel,  waiting  to  amuse  for  a 
pittance  the  prince  whose  welcome  guest  was  that  arch 
enemy  of  his!  Alas,  he,  the  bourgeois  lad  without  the 
right  to  wear  a  sword,  had  sunk  to  the  state  of  a  prince's 
fool  in  motley  for  the  sake  of  her  whom  that  base 
libertine  had  tarnished  with  his  passion!  No  wonder 
he  hated  Modene;  for  was  there  ever  a  jealous  lover 
who  could  gaze  upon  the  rifler  of  his  love  without  a 
tinge  of  murder  in  his  soul? 

But  this  agony  of  his  was  tempered  by  a  purring  voice. 
Painted  and  powdered,  dressed  and  coifed  for  the 
comedy,  Trinette  stood  beside  him,  her  head  full  of  mis 
chief,  her  heart  high  in  mettle. 

"  An  old  comrade's  greeting,  Moliere,"  she  said,  being 
very  sure  in  her  mind  that  he  would  accept  a  civil 
amende  for  their  last  angry  parting.  Indeed,  his  hate 
was  too  concentrated  on  Modene  for  it  to  extend  to  her, 
and  glad  of  a  respite  from  it,  he  turned  toward  the  olive- 


TRINETTE   RE-ENTERS  247 

cheeked  girl  without  a  bit  of  rancour  for  her  scorn 
of  him. 

"  To  my  greetings  I  add  compliments/'  he  answered 
gallantly ;  "  since  never  did  you  look  more  charming." 

Having  learned  that  the  brazen  way  was  not  the 
winning  way  with  him,  she  forced  a  shy  look  to  her 
hardened  face.  "Alack,  did  I  not  know  the  flattering 
tongues  of  men,"  she  smiled,  "  I  might  believe  that  I 
seemed  pleasing  in  your  glance !  " 

Again  he  saw  her,  beautiful  and  ardent  as  on  that 
day  in  the  forest  near  Poissy,  but  the  frank  blue  eyes 
of  Madeleine  were  not  near  to  shame  him.  "  You  were 
never  so  pleasing,  Trinette,"  he  faltered. 

"  And  you  were  never  so  wise,  Moliere,"  she  whis 
pered  softly,  "  for  at  last  you  have  begun  to  find  the 
way."  Seeing  him  puzzled,  she  left  him,  saying  as  she 
went,  "  The  way  to  the  garden,  I  mean — the  garden 
of  love !  " 

Breathing  air  made  fragrant  by  her  perfume,  he  gazed 
at  her  lithe  form  receding  in  its  clinging  dress;  and 
while  he  stood  in  the  wings  to  watch  her  in  the  comedy, 
a  recreant  voice  within  him  whispered  of  treachery. 
Madeleine  stole  beside  him.  Trinette's  bold  glances 
angered  her,  but  she  said  not  a  word.  Silenced  by 
contrition,  Moliere  strove  to  quell  the  wild  desires 
awakened  by  the  slender  wanton:  but,  when  the  comedy 
in  which  she  played  had  ended  in  a  burst  of  applause, 
shame  of  another  sort  filled  equally  the  hearts  of  these 
discordant  lovers;  for  Monsieur,  coming  on  the  stage 
to  dance  in  the  ballet,  looked  askance  at  Moliere's 
threadbare  doublet,  his  noble  corps  de  ballet  tittering  at 
Madeleine's  faded  dress.  The  Marais  troupe  had 
splendid  costumes;  theirs,  alas,  were  hired  frippery! 


248  FAME'S   PATHWAY 

Convinced  that  a  gorgeous  audience  was  eyeing  them 
with  scorn,  the  unhappy  pair  lost  heart  and,  when  the 
fiddles  had  crooned  the  music  of  the  first  entree,  began 
to  recite  Tristan's  verses  like  trembling  tyros.  Their 
comrades,  quite  as  conscious  of  their  shabbiness  as  they, 
grew  frightened  too,  and  vied  in  tremulous  elocution, 
until  even  Daniel  Mallet's  strenuous  steps  could  not 
avert  the  ballet's  doom. 

When  the  curtain  fell,  the  yawning  courtiers  sur 
reptitiously  voted  the  ballet  a  fiasco  without  a  redeeming 
source  of  merriment  save  Monsieur's  gouty  steps.  Too 
crestfallen  to  berate  one  another,  the  actors  of  the  Illus 
trious  Theatre  slunk  away,  grieving  that  failure  had 
again  been  written  on  their  tattered,  drooping  banner; 
but  in  the  sight  of  the  collation — a  triumph  of  luxurious 
Monsieur,  seen  through  a  door  ajar — their  shame  be 
came  hungry  longing.  Golden  plates  and  shimmering 
candles,  snowy  napery  and  savoury  dishes!  Their 
empty  stomachs  gnawed  in  vain. 

Seeing  whole  platterfuls  borne  away  untouched 
poor  Beys  wept  outright.  So  copious  were  his  tears 
that,  through  the  mist  of  them,  he  failed  to  see  the  acme 
of  the  feast — a  troupe  of  dancing  pages,  each  bearing, 
as  he  pirouetted,  a  basket  of  sweetmeats  trimmed  with 
gold  tissue  and  English  ribands.  Not  till  the  violins 
began  to  play  a  saraband,  and  crimson  hose  to  flash 
above  the  tops  of  high-heeled  slippers,  did  Beys  learn 
that  he  had  missed  so  pleasing  a  sight.  While  vain 
exquisites,  in  velvet  small-clothes  fringed  below  the  knee 
with  lace,  bowed  in  the  stately  measures  of  the  dance 
to  languishing  precieuses,  his  comrades  told  the  empty 
poet  of  the  dainties  those  pages  had  borne. 

"  Sacrebleu,  and  a  thousand  thunders !  "  moaned  he, 


TRINETTE   RE-ENTERS  249 

"  if  this  feast  of  Tantalus  continues,  I  shall  end  my 
miserable  life  by  rushing  on  the  pike  of  yon  Swiss 
guard." 

But  this  dire  step  was  not  taken.  Beys  and  his  com 
rades  and  the  troupe  of  the  theatre  du  Marais,  too,  were 
regaled  by  the  remnants  of  the  collation  they  had  viewed 
so  covetously.  No  untouched  dishes  left  their  table; 
nor  did  they  sup  alone. 

Glad  to  leave  their  languid  partners  in  the  dance, 
Guise,  the  profligate,  Modene,  his  satellite,  and  a  dozen 
gay  sparks  of  their  semblance,  came  trooping  from  the 
ball-room  to  bask  in  the  light  of  bolder  eyes  than 
they  had  left.  In  the  ardent  looks  of  the  actresses 
who  greeted  them,  there  was  no  shyness  and  slight 
hesitancy. 

Only  Madeleine's  glance  was  lowered,  and  that  to  the 
gaze  of  Modene,  for  the  sight  of  him  chilled  her  heart. 
Through  downcast  lids  she  watched  him  trip  to  Tri- 
nette's  side,  and  thought  it  a  meet  place  for  him,  until 
Guise,  his  patron,  elbowed  him  laughingly  away  in  an 
effort  to  kiss  the  minx.  Trinette  gave  him  the  painted 
roses  in  her  cheeks  but  not  her  lips ;  and  when  he  fought 
for  them,  she  boxed  his  ducal  ears;  for,  having  cal 
culated  the  advantage  to  herself  of  an  admirer  of  his 
exalted  state,  she,  being  versed  in  coquetry,  played  the 
role  of  indifference. 

Marotte  Beaupre,  of  the  Marais,  liked  not  her  tri 
umph — nor  did  Moliere,  for  the  witchery  of  sex  had 
taken  a  sudden  and  unreasoning  hold  on  him  and  he  felt 
almost  a  lover's  jealousy  as  he  watched  the  dissolute  Due 
de  Guise  kissing  her  pretty  cheek. 

Madeleine  saw  the  resentful  look  in  his  eyes,  and  her 
face  paled.  Modene,  passing  at  the  moment,  stooped 


250  FAME'S   PATHWAY 

and  took  a  hand  from  her  lap  to  kiss.  "  How  does  my 
lady  ?  "  he  asked. 

She  looked  up  startled,  the  sound  of  his  voice  recalling 
a  feeling  she  had  long  tried  to  dull.  The  rims  of  his 
eyes  were  thicker  and  redder,  but  else  he  was  as  ashen — 
the  curl  of  his  lip  as  arrogant.  Still,  she  could  not 
thoroughly  hate  him,  a  little  grave  being  the  one  fond 
link  in  a  chain  of  cruel  memories  binding  her  to  him. 
"  I  do  well,  Remond — and  you  ?  "  she  said  in  answer, 
her  compassion  rising  to  meet  his  superciliousness. 

"  Morbleu !  "  he  replied,  while  pouring  for  himself  a 
glass  of  wine  after  filling  hers,  "  as  for  me,  I  do 
famously;  but  life  in  the  comte  Venaissin  has  begun  to 
pall:  I  shall  be  off  to  the  wars  in  the  spring." 

"And  Marie  Courtin?"  asked  Madeleine,  with  a 
Woman's  pardonable  curiosity. 

"  Marie  Courtin !  "  he  shrugged.  "  Pardi,  I  thought 
by  the  gift  of  a  cottage  to  settle  that  fair  lady  and  her 
husband  contentedly  in  the  comte;  but  when  I  came  to 
Paris,  they  followed  me." 

Smiling,  she  raised  her  glass  to  her  lips.  "  Jean- 
Baptiste  de  1'Hermite  too !  "  she  exclaimed. 

"  Morbleu,  yes.  Yet  knowing  Richelieu  to  be  dead, 
he  is  surely  aware  that  I  have  no  need  of  him  in  further 
ing  plots  against  His  Eminence." 

She  looked  up,  amused  at  the  recital,  and  went  on 
sipping  her  wine.  "  He  is  a  leech,  Remond ;  you  will 
never  shake  him  off.  As  for  his  wife,  I  pity  her,"  she 
added,  with  a  touch  of  sadness  in  her  voice. 

Quietly  he  placed  an  arm  about  her  waist,  and  before 
she  could  put  it  off,  said,  "  You  are  not  like  Marie 
Courtin;  you  never  tagged  at  my  heels." 

She  heard  the  falter  in  his  voice  and  her  face  changed, 


TRINETTE   RE-ENTERS  251 

grew  softer,  more  tender,  but  her  pride  rose  in  time. 
"  It  is  too  late,"  she  answered  quite  calmly;  "too  late 
to  make  an  honourable  amendment." 

"  Pouf ! "  said  he.  "  Judging  by  the  tarnished  tinsel 
of  your  dress,  the  high  horse  you  ride  will  soon  throw 
you." 

"  I  have  not  yet  cried  out  for  help,"  she  said,  in  the 
same  measured  voice  in  which  she  had  answered  him 
upon  a  certain  starlit  night  when  he  stood  by  her  win 
dow  taunting  her.  She  had  tried  since  then  to  win  her 
little  triumph  in  the  only  arena  open  to  a  woman  like 
herself — tried  hard,  though  stunned  and  bruised;  yet 
courage  was  failing  her  because  she  saw  a  face  with 
godlike  eyes  pensive  beside  a  tawny  girl  who  was  point 
ing  at  her  in  derision;  for  when  Modene  took  his  place 
beside  her,  Trinette  had  left  the  ardent  Due  de  Guise, 
to  whisper  with  a  tongue  darting,  like  a  viper's,  forked 
and  poisoned  from  a  vile  little  head:  "  Look,  Moliere, 
the  proverb  is  true:  to  the  first  love  we  ever  return." 

The  cavalier's  arm  had  stolen  about  Madeleine  as 
Trinette  spoke,  and  Moliere's  eyes  grew  dim  and  misty 
at  the  sight  of  it.  A  keen  pain  was  in  his  heart,  sharp 
as  a  knife  thrust. 

"  Revenge  is  sweet,"  said  the  girl,  "  and  oh,  so  near, 
if  you  would  only  look !  " 

As  he  said  not  a  word,  she  shrugged  her  pretty 
shoulders  and  returned  to  Guise,  leaving  the  young  actor 
to  glare  at  Modene  until  it  seemed  as  if  his  feverish  eyes 
must  burn  their  sockets  out. 

Monsieur  came,  pulling  his  locks,  a  leer  on  his  long, 
oval  face ;  but  when  he  saw  Moliere  he  frowned.  "  There 
is  the  dolt,"  he  said,  turning  to  Tristan  de  1'Hermite, 
who  followed  obsequiously  in  his  train;  then  to  the 


252  FAME'S    PATHWAY 

young  player  he  addressed  these  harsh  words :  "  Your 
performance  this  day  was  pitiful.  The  troupe  du 
Marais  put  you  to  shame — you  and  your  gawky  com 
rades.  Understand,  young  man,  that  you  are  no  longer 
in  my  service." 

As  his  royal  master  turned  upon  his  heel,  Tristan 
raised  his  shoulders  deprecatingly  as  if  to  say  that  the 
fiasco  was  not  of  his  making. 

The  cold  manner  of  the  audience,  the  triumphant 
sneers  of  the  rival  troupe,  had  told  Moliere  how  wretched 
was  the  performance  he  and  his  comrades  had  given. 
Now  that  the  prince's  anger  had  burst,  it  seemed  to 
him  that  his  very  soul  was  dead — the  soul  of  his  am 
bition.  Cruelly  dismayed,  he  turned  and  walked  to  a 
corner  of  the  room  and  sat  there  alone,  his  face  turned 
toward  the  revellers,  his  eyes  not  seeing  them. 

Loathing  himself  far  more  than  his  misfortune,  he 
looked  the  future  in  the  face,  and  it  gave  him  back  a 
perverted  image,  for  the  world  was  awry — his  heart 
seemed  only  a  wretched  canker.  Black  thoughts  filled 
his  tired  mind.  In  swarms  they  came  flocking  over  him 
• — hateful,  winged  vultures  to  screech  the  bitter  word 
failure  on  the  scented  air  he  breathed.  To  the  earth 
they  beat  him  with  their  dark  pinions — to  the  desert, 
where  he  lay  parched  and  bruised.  One  of  his  thoughts 
was  of  a  dangerous  sweetness ;  for,  while  he  dwelt  upon 
his  blighted  dreams  and  Madeleine's  waning  love — for 
so  his  jealousy  distorted  her  sweet  loyalty — he  seemed 
to  stand  hand  in  hand  with  another  upon  a  brink,  and 
when  she  called,  he  leaped,  full  of  recklessness,  into  the 
swirling  tide  of  pleasure,  flowing  so  easily  and  swiftly 
toward  oblivion.  Yet  even  while  this  tempting  dream 
came  over  him,  a  frail  little  bark  of  hope  plunged  man- 


TRINETTE   RE-ENTERS  253 

fully  into  the  stormy  water  of  the  future,  while  tossing 
up  the  spray  to  cool  his  heated  brow. 

When  sheer  fatigue  swam  over  him,  he  dozed  amid  the 
laughter  of  the  revellers,  until  Madeleine  shook  him 
gently.  "  Come,  dear/'  said  she,  "  they  are  putting  out 
the  lights." 


CHAPTER  IV 

MADELEINE  LIES  GLIBLY 

AFTER  the  wretched  evening  at  the  Luxembourg,  the  tide 
of  the  Illustrious  Theatre's  affairs  moved  on  for  a  time 
in  a  more  serene  course.  Monsieur  withdrew  his  royal 
favour,  it  is  true,  yet  Tristan  de  1'Hermite,  taking  pity 
upon  his  luckless  friends,  brought  them  another  tragedy, 
which  was  so  lustily  acclaimed  that  there  were  daily 
profits.  Pommier's  itching  palm  was  outstretched  per 
force;  other  creditors  were  constrained  to  wait. 

And  what  of  Moliere  during  these  brightening  weeks  ? 
At  twenty-three  a  young  genius  is  not  long  downcast 
when  hope  shines  in  his  tempestuous  path.  Moreover, 
Madeleine  shunned  Modene,  and  Trinette  busied  her 
self  with  the  Due  de  Guise;  so  his  heart  wounds  were 
healing.  To  a  matter  of  fact  world,  however,  the  bat 
tles  he  waged  against  a  dull  Philistine  host  were  but 
fatuous  pranks;  his  dreams  of  glory,  moods;  his  love, 
a  perversity.  Though  he  triumphed  for  a  day  and  took 
heart,  the  bourgeois  Paris  in  which  he  was  born  turned 
a  cold  shoulder  when  he  passed.  Poor  lad!  he  did  not 
see  that  the  goat-song  of  tragedy  to  which  he  hearkened 
was  sung  by  a  siren  to  lure  him,  while  he  thought  her  an 
inspiring  muse. 

He  was  helplessly  enmeshed  in  debts,  Pommier  being 
not  the  only  usurer  to  whom  he  had  recourse.  Of  a 
fripper  dwelling  near  the  Temple,  he  obtained  a  few 
score  of  livres  by  pledging  two  ribands  embroidered  in 

254, 


MADELEINE    LIES    GLIBLY        255 

silver  and  gold — precious  keepsakes  from  his  mother's 
wardrobe — but,  when  the  theatre  re-opened  after  the 
Easter  holidays,  Tristan's  play  had  lost  the  bloom  of 
novelty.  There  being  nought  worthy  to  replace  it,  the 
audiences  dwindled  once  more.  Pommier  began  to 
clamour  for  an  accounting,  and  he  threatened  once  more 
to  invoke  the  law.  Moreover,  Antoine  Fausser,  a 
chandler,  demanded  lustily  requital  for  his  dips;  Du- 
bourg,  a  draper,  with  equal  vehemence,  the  price  of  his 
textiles. 

So  beset  was  Moliere  by  those  creditors  that  he  had 
little  time  to  brood  over  his  hatred  of  Modene,  while 
Trinette  became  too  elated  by  the  triumph  of  a  duke's 
regard  to  let  a  penniless  actor  disturb  the  serenity  of  it, 
even  though  his  scorn  of  her  rankled. 

But  there  was  a  matter  to  weigh  more  heavily  upon 
the  young  actor's  oppressed  heart  than  his  debts  or  his 
jealousy  or  the  wiles  of  a  jade.  Concern  for  open- 
handed  Chapelle  had  sent  him  on  many  visits  to  the 
taverns  where  he  drank;  yet  the  wine-cup  had  taken  too 
ruthless  a  hold  of  him  for  any  friendly  offices  to  loosen 
it.  In  spite  of  Moliere's  pleadings  and  the  sleepless 
nights  he  spent  endeavouring  to  reclaim  him,  he  became 
so  unruly  an  inebriate  that  the  authorities  clapped  him 
in  a  correctionary  gaol  to  languish  for  a  year,  but  not  to 
repent — a  drunkard  he  remained  to  his  dying  day. 

On  the  day  of  his  incarceration,  Moliere  wept  at  his 
prison  gate.  "  Poor  Chapelle,"  sighed  he,  "  if  my  de 
votion  could  have  spared  you  the  disgrace,  you  were  a 
free  man."  Drying  his  tears  resolutely,  he  turned  his 
steps  sadly  toward  his  theatre,  while  musing  upon  the 
direness  of  the  vice  that  had  brought  his  friend  to  such 
a  pass.  "  It  is  the  generous  who  fall  prey  to  it,"  he 


256  FAME'S   PATHWAY 

thought ;  "  the  mean  are  too  sordid  to  buy  cheer  for  a 
comrade,  too  sullen  to  drink  aught  but  their  own  bile." 

And  what  of  Bernier,  Hesnault,  and  Le  Broussin? 
he  asked  himself.  They  knew  as  well  as  any  that  drink 
was  Chapelle's  undoing,  and  yet  they  had  never  once 
placed  a  restraining  hand  upon  his  sleeve.  When  he 
came  to  a  prison  gate,  they  were  not  there  to  solace  him. 
"  Ah,  my  dear  and  generous  Claude ! "  he  cried  aloud, 
"  how  true  are  those  words  you  spoke  to  me  in  my  own 
hour  of  misery,  '  He  who  ceases  to  be  a  friend  has  in 
deed  never  been  one ! ' ' 

Yet  the  day  was  a  balmy  one,  with  the  sunlight  shin 
ing  brightly  on  the  ripples  of  the  Seine.  Gay  horse 
men  were  passing,  boatmen  singing  merrily  to  the  stroke 
of  their  bending  oars;  still  he  felt  himself  a  pitiful 
wayfarer,  for,  on  that  day  in  May,  Pommier  the  usurer 
had  threatened  to  seal  the  doom  of  the  Illustrious  The 
atre.  In  Moliere's  weary  brain,  there  was  not  a  single 
fertile  thought  of  succour;  yet  a  way  must  be  found  or 
a  prison  door  would  close  upon  him  as  well  as  upon 
Chapelle. 

At  the  Black  Cross  Tennis-Court,  his  comrades 
awaited  his  coming,  their  hearts  too  oppressed  to  abuse 
him  for  his  tardiness,  since  Pommier  was  there,  rubbing 
his  greedy  palms. 

"  Well,  my  young  man,"  said  the  usurer,  "  have  you 
brought  the  money  ?  " 

"  No,"  said  Moliere  sorrowfully. 

Now  Pommier  knew  that  the  equity  in  Marie  Herve's 
house,  backed  by  the  precarious  bondsmen  of  the  various 
actors,  made  his  small  principal  safe  enough:  not  so  his 
large  usury;  yet,  if  he  prosecuted  these  wretched 
players,  they  would  close  their  theatre — an  event  to  be 


MADELEINE    LIES    GLIBLY          257 

postponed,  since  another  play  such  as  Tristan's  might 
bring  a  few  more  daily  profits  to  his  till.  Moreover, 
his  only  hope  of  a  full  requital  lay  in  Moliere's  pros 
perous  father;  for,  if  the  son  were  gaoled,  paternal 
pride  might  manifest  itself. 

Turning  his  blotched  face  toward  the  actors,  he  ad 
dressed  them  craftily :  "  The  notes  given  by  you  are 
past  due;  yet  I  am  willing  to  postpone  the  prosecution 
for — shall  we  say  four  months? — the  condition  being 
that  a  decree  of  respite  be  entered  at  the  Palais,  your 
comrade,  Jean-Baptiste  Poquelin,  ycleped  Moliere, 
agreeing  to  assume  the  payment  of  the  obligations  at 
maturity." 

Moliere  was  lawyer  enough  to  perceive  the  muck 
worm's  project.  It  meant  he  would  be  gaoled  in  four 
months  if  the  notes  were  not  paid.  Yet  the  tide  of 
misfortune  might  turn.  Yes;  gladly  would  he  sacrifice 
himself  for  the  sake  of  those  four  months.  Squaring 
his  shoulders,  he  faced  the  usurer  bravely.  "  It  is  a 
bargain,"  said  he.  "  Let  the  decree  be  entered." 

Madeleine  protested  at  the  mean  spirit  her  companions 
were  showing  in  letting  Moliere  bear  the  brunt  of  their 
troubles;  but,  with  a  discernment  equal  to  Pommier's, 
her  brother  Joseph  saw  the  role  Moliere's  father  might 
play.  "  T-t-time  is  everything,"  he  stammered.  "  In 
four  months,  m-m-much  may  happen." 

"  You  see,"  vouchsafed  Moliere,  with  a  martyr's 
equanimity,  "we  are  of  one  mind." 

Madeleine  said,  "  Do  as  you  choose ;  yet  I  protest 
that  it  is  unjust." 

Thus  the  matter  was  settled;  yet,  when  Pommier  went 
shambling  off,  Beys,  putting  his  wily  head  close  to 
Pinel's  didactic  one,  declared  the  moment  to  decamp 


258  FAME'S   PATHWAY 

propitious,  since  Moliere's  immolation  had  left  them  with 
free  skins — an  opinion  shared  by  La  Malingre,  when 
the  matter  was  voiced  to  her.  Thus  a  seditious  trio  was 
formed  and  its  courage  screwed  to  the  point  of  an 
nouncing  that  three  illustrious  players  meant  to  depart 
without  so  much  as  a  "  by  your  leave,  my  friends." 

"  Our  contract  requires  a  four  months'  notice  of  with 
drawal,"  protested  Moliere,  unfolding  it  to  their  view. 

"  Our  signatures  are  there,"  quoth  the  three,  laughing 
heartily,  "  and  so  are  they  upon  Pommier's  notes.  Do 
your  devilmost,  but  off  we  go ! "  and,  having  flouted  this 
defiance,  they  made  off  hand  in  hand. 

"  Let  the  traitors  go !  "  cried  Moliere,  red  and  furious, 
"  There  are  loyal  hearts  enough ! " 

"  S-s-seven  are  left,"  said  Bej  art,  "  yet  how  many  are 
1-1-loyal?  " 

The  stutterer's  glance  at  Desfontaines  was  doubtful, 
for  he  had  seen  the  author  of  the  tragedies  that  had 
overborne  the  Illustrious  Theatre  shifting  his  feet.  In 
deed,  this  rogue  found  the  courage  to  scamper  too — 
scurvy  rat  that  he  was — from  a  ship  he  deemed  sinking. 
A  good  riddance  surely,  though  Moliere  cursed  him  as 
he  went 

Germain  Clerin  stood  up  and  vowed  allegiance.  The 
words  Catherine  Bourgeois  spoke  were  encouraging. 
"  I  know  a  young  man  named  Rabel  who  has  long  wished 
to  be  an  actor." 

"  Persuade  him  to  join  our  ranks,"  said  Moliere. 

"  An  easy  task,"  smiled  the  girl. 

"  And  what  of  the  young  advocate  of  Lyons  who 
brought  us  a  tragedy  the  other  day  ?  "  asked  Germain 
Clerin.  "  He  had  a  bright  face,  though  I  recall  not 
his  name." 


MADELEINE    LIES    GLIBLY          259 

"  Jean  Magnon,"  answered  Moliere  eagerly.  "  His 
play  is  called  '  Artaxerxes.'  A  worthy  subject;  I  shall 
read  it  forthwith."  Whereupon  he  rummaged  until  he 
found  the  manuscript. 

While  he  was  placing  it  in  his  doublet,  Madeleine 
drew  an  arm  about  his  waist.  "  Think,  dear,"  she  said, 
"  how  the  burghers  of  Poissy  laughed  at  the  learned 
doctor  of  your  farce;  think  how  well  you  played  Do- 
rante,  the  liar !  " 

Even  his  heart  began  to  falter ;  but  when  she  spoke  of 
Dorante,  a  sallow  face  grew  vivid  in  his  overwrought 
mind — the  face  of  Corneille.  With  this  vision  of  the 
master  came  the  echo  of  his  voice  saying  to  him,  the 
lowly  disciple,  "  If  my  words  have  inspired  you  they 
have  not  been  in  vain." 

While  he  struggled  with  himself  against  himself 
Madeleine  kept  to  her  purpose.  "  Listen,  dear.  This 
morning  I  met  an  old  comrade,  by  name  Charles 
Dufresne.  He  is  forming  a  troupe  to  take  service 
with  the  Due  d'fipernon.  He  invited  me  to  join  him 
and  bring  with  me  the  best  comedian  among  my 
comrades." 

"  Nay,  Madeleine,"  he  said,  his  eyes  pleading  with 
her ;  "  not  yet  will  I  be  the  turkey  of  farce." 

He  turned  away,  and  she,  taking  pity,  let  him  go. 
While  his  step  echoed  through  the  still  tennis-court,  she 
sought  in  vain  an  outcome  to  their  plight;  for,  even  if 
Pommier  held  aloof,  she  knew  that  other  creditors  would 
press  their  claims.  Disaster,  alas,  must  surely  over 
whelm  them,  and  when  it  came,  Moliere  must  bear  the 
shock  of  it.  Yet,  seeing  clearly  the  result  of  his 
obstinate  self-sacrifice,  she  loved  him  only  the  more  for 
it,  so  courageous  did  it  seem,  and  yet  so  futile.  She 


260  FAME'S   PATHWAY 

was  miserable;  and  while  she  pondered  in  vain,  her 
comrades  left  her  one  by  one — all  except  Catherine 
Bourgeois,  who  came  to  her  to  press  her  hand  fondly. 
Madeleine  drew  the  girl's  head  to  her  shoulder,  and 
there  they  sat  trying  to  soothe  each  other,  trying  to  de 
vise  some  means  to  end  their  troubles,  until  they  were 
startled  by  the  tramp  of  strange  feet.  Looking  up,  they 
saw  Antoine  Fausser,  the  chandler,  and  with  him  Du- 
bourg,  the  draper. 

Madeleine  eyed  them  vaguely,  being  just  then  unable 
to  realise  the  purport  of  their  visit.  Extreme  fatigue 
had  overcome  her,  so  she  nodded  and  yawned  while  ask 
ing  them  what  they  sought. 

"  Moliere,"  said  Fausser  gruffly. 

"  Yes,  Moliere,"  echoed  his  companion,  "  since  his 
name  is  pledged  to  debts  that  are  not  paid." 

She  was  awake  now  and  fully  conscious  of  the  dan 
ger;  for,  in  the  shadow  beyond  these  men,  she  saw  the 
low-bowed  face  of  a  bailiff.  "  Moliere  is  goire,"  she  said 
hurriedly,  fighting  for  time. 

"  None  of  that,  my  girl,"  shouted  the  draper,  breath 
ing  deep  through  his  nose.  "  It  will  do  you  no  good 
to  lie." 

She  was  all  dismay,  yet  she  spoke  without  a  tremor. 
"  You  have  come  to  arrest  him  ?  " 

The  chandler's  blear  eyes  twitched  angrily.  "  It  is 
the  way  to  make  him  pay  honest  debts." 

A  weaker  woman  would  have  implored  with  tears,  she 
but  sharpened  her  wits.  Thieves !  a  pair  of  thieves ! 
thought  she;  and  for  ends  which  seemed  good  to  her, 
she  resolved  to  lie  glibly.  "  Arrest  him !  "  she  scoffed, 
"when  a  great  noble's  protection  has  just  been  ex 
tended  to  him !  A  fool's  policy  indeed !  " 


MADELEINE    LIES    GLIBLY          261 

"  A  likely  tale,"  grunted  Fausser.  "  And  who,  pray, 
is  this  great  noble  ?  " 

"  The  Due  de  Guise,"  said  Madeleine  boldly,  his 
name  being  first  on  her  lip;  yet  while  she  said  this,  she 
was  praying  how  best  she  might  make  the  lie  plausible. 
The  Due  de  Guise  indeed!  .  .  .  And  why  not? 
The  thought  had  a  bite  in  it  since,  to  win  his  favour, 
she  must  humble  herself  to  his  henchman.  And  still 
why  not?  The  proud  horse  she  rode  had  thrown  her. 
She  was  in  the  dust  before  two  rogues  who  stood  ready 
to  throttle  her  joy.  In  such  a  predicament  she  would 
humble  herself  to  the  devil,  if,  indeed,  Modene  were  not 
the  devil.  As  for  qualms,  she  had  none.  She  only 
longed  to  save  her  lover;  so,  when  the  chandler  blinked 
doubtfully,  and  the  draper  called  her  a  prevaricating 
hussy,  she  faced  them  boldly  and  lied  with  a  very  high 
head,  considering  the  tottering  stool  on  which  she  stood. 

"  Yes,  the  Due  de  Guise,  for  he  has  taken  us  under  his 
protection." 

The  chandler  raised  his  voice.  "  I  believe  not  a  word 
of  it " 

Madeleine,  sweetly  smiling,  checked  him.  "  Excite 
not  yourself,  my  friend.  To-morrow  the  half  of  your 
claim  will  be  paid,  and  that  of  Dubourg  as  well." 

"  The  half !  "  snarled  the  draper ;  "  and  what  of  the 
whole  ?  " 

"  The  half  to-morrow ;  the  whole  in  good  time.  It  is 
better  than  nothing,  sir  draper." 

So  thought  the  rogue,  and  Fausser  as  well;  therefore, 
they  withdrew,  vowing  that  if  the  jade  played  them 
false,  they  would  gaol  her  too. 

Catherine  Bourgeois  sat  gravely  wondering  where  the 
ransom  was  to  come  from.  To  her  questioning  look, 


FAME'S   PATHWAY 

Madeleine  said,  "  Come,  I  have  need  of  you ;"  for  she 
had  firmly  resolved  that  one  price  she  would  not  pay. 
She  would  plead,  yes,  and  humble  herself,  but  never 
should  Modene  tread  upon  her  soul  again.  Let  the  girl 
witness  her  sincerity. 

She  did  not  go  forth  with  lowered  head,  but  carried 
it  upright  as  if  her  business  were  honourable.  Through 
the  winding  ways  of  Paris  she  went,  Catherine  Bour 
geois  content  to  follow,  so  implicit  was  her  faith.  At 
Modene's  lodging,  his  valet  vowed  he  knew  not  his 
master's  whereabouts ;  but  he  had  a  liking  for  Madeleine, 
and  when  she  gave  him  the  lie  direct,  he  whispered, 
"  Renard's  Garden !  " 

A  league  away  lay  this  gay  retreat,  yet  Madeleine  did 
not  falter.  With  her  fine  head  erect,  she  sped  along 
the  river  bank — her  faithful,  silent  friend  beside  her — 
past  the  barges  and  the  water  coaches,  the  open-air 
shops,  the  jousts  of  bargees  and  river  men. 

At  the  porte  de  la  Conference,  they  turned  aside,  with 
panting  breath,  toward  Renard's  bower.  Gilded  coaches 
rumbled  by  them,  bearing  proud  ladies,  coifed  and 
powdered,  from  the  Cours-la-Reine.  Gentlemen  of 
quality  bowed  low  to  these,  but  none  noticed  the  shabby, 
footsore  actresses  save  pygmy  Voiture,  riding  beside 
Madame  de  Rambouillet's  coach.  Madeleine  did  not 
see  the  little  poet  turn  his  eyes  away  lest  her  acquaint 
ance  shame  him,  for  her  heart  was  oppressed,  her  spirit 
almost  gone.  What  more  could  she  suffer?  One  thing 
only,  the  loss  of  Moliere's  love.  If  she  adored  him 
amiss,  and  humbled  her  pride  to  save  him,  it  was  be 
cause  she  adored  him  too  well. 


Her  heart  was  oppressed,  her  spirit  almost  gone 


CHAPTER  V 

REWARD'S  GARDEN 

IN  Renard's  cool  groves,  the  gay  world  gathered  after 
its  daily  promenade  in  the  Cours-la-Reine.  There  trysts 
were  made  in  a  garden  of  delights  untold,  because  the 
telling  would  be  indiscreet;  there  Renard  would  rob  you 
as  dexterously  as  he  had  robbed  his  noble  master  when 
he  was  a  valet,  yet,  so  craftily  tied  was  his  tongue  that 
the  frailest  of  his  fair  patrons  knew  that  the  secret  of 
her  amours  was  safe  in  his  keeping.  A  fox  by  nature, 
a  fox  by  name,  was  this  complaisant  rogue.  All  hail  to 
him,  wily  harbinger  of  Mascarille  and  Scapin! 

Upon  Madeleine  he  frowned  because  her  gown  was 
faded;  yet,  knowing  every  one  in  Paris  who  was  any 
one,  he  knew  her  too;  so  he  listened  when  she  told  him 
that  her  friend  and  she  were  supping  with  the  Due  de 
Guise  and  the  Baron  de  Modene.  Knowing  these  rakes 
awaited  two  ladies,  he  believed  her;  for  he  did  not 
know  that  his  serving-man  had  guided  the  expected 
guests  to  their  table.  Thus  Master  Renard  was  tricked 
by  Madeleine's  tale,  a  clever  woman  being  a  match  for 
even  so  crafty  a  fox  as  he.  Nevertheless,  he  approached 
with  caution  the  bosquet  Guise  had  engaged.  Hearing 
feminine  laughter  rippling  through  the  leaves,  he  mo 
tioned  Madeleine  to  wait. 

Now  the  ladies  within  the  bower  were  Trinette 
Desurlis  and  Marie  Courtin  de  la  Dehors — their  hair  as 
black  as  their  souls,  their  lips  as  scarlet  as  their  char 
acters — and  when  the  crafty  landlord  peered  through  the 

263 


2641  FAME'S    PATHWAY 

rustling  leaves,  he  saw  them  entwined  in  rapturous  arms. 
He  coughed,  but  they  paid  no  heed,  so  entranced  were 
they  with  a  project  Guise  was  voicing.  To  the  war  in 
Flanders  they  must  go — such  was  his  plan. 

"  Monsieur  is  in  command/'  said  this  pleasure-loving 
seigneur,  "and  he  will  lead  us  no  such  strenuous  chase 
as  would  Enghien  or  Turenne.  Indeed,  if  I  mistake  not, 
he  proposes  to  set  us  down  before  Mardyck  and  pass  the 
summer  in  a  siege.  Two  ladies  fair  as  you  would  make 
the  trenches  a  paradise  for  my  dear  friend  Modene  and 
ardent  me.  What  say  you  to  the  plan,  Trinette  ?  "  he 
whispered,  kissing  the  girl  upon  his  knee. 

"  The  journey  is  arduous,  your  grace,"  said  she,  fear 
ing  to  show  too  great  a  willingness. 

Guise  laughed  uproariously.  "  If  a  hundred  horses, 
a  dozen  wains,  a  pack  of  sumpter  mules,  and  two  coaches 
and  six  make  a  journey  arduous,  then  will  it  be  arduous 
to  travel  in  my  suite." 

Trinette's  dark  eyes  sparkled,  but  she  curbed  her  joy. 
"  Mardyck  is  far  from  Paris,"  she  pouted. 

"  You  silly  girl !  "  broke  in  Marie  Courtin ;  and  afraid 
that  Trinette's  hesitancy  would  upset  the  project,  she 
left  Modene's  side  to  expostulate.  He,  with  a  sigh  of 
relief,  rose  to  stroll  through  the  grove  and  ponder  a  way 
to  be  rid  of  her. 

Now  Renard,  wise  rogue,  made  sure  that  Madeleine 
played  no  part  in  Guise's  plan;  so  he  took  a  backward 
step.  Modene,  hearing  the  leaves  tremble,  grabbed  his 
collar.  "  What  mean  you  by  spying  on  us,  you  rascal  ?  " 
he  cried,  dragging  the  fellow  toward  the  table  about 
which  his  companions  sat. 

"  Trounce  him  well !  "  laughed  Guise ;  "  trounce  him 
till  he  disgorges  the  pistoles  he  has  robbed  us  of !  " 


RENARD'S    GARDEN  265 

"  Pecaire,  I  will !  "  replied  Modene,  raising  his  cane. 

The  rogue  fell  on  his  knees.  "  Listen,  Monsieur  le 
Baron,  listen !  I  came  at  the  intercession  of  a  lady  who 
said  you  had  invited  her." 

Modene  shook  him  lustily.  "  I  have  invited  no  lady, 
you  scoundrel !  " 

But  Marie  Courtin's  jealous  ears  were  pricked.  "  And 
who  is  this  lady,  pray  ?  "  she  asked. 

"  Mademoiselle  Be j  art,"  whimpered  Renard,  his  trem 
bling  eyes  still  fixed  upon  the  terrifying  cane. 

"  Oho ! "  said  Trinette  softly. 

Marie  Courtin's  vengeful  tongue  snapped  her  rage  at 
Madeleine's  impertinence,  then  stormed  at  Modene  for 
his  perfidy,  she  holding  no  minx  so  brazen  as  to  follow 
him  unbidden.  He,  meeting  each  blast  with  a  shrug, 
began  to  take  another  course.  "  Sang  dious,  if  a  dozen 
ladies  follow  me,  't  is  my  affair !  " 

And  turning  on  his  heel,  he  pulled  Renard  after  him. 
"  Where  is  Mademoiselle  Bej  art  ?  "  he  demanded. 

Marie  Courtin  turned  faint  and  had  to  be  fanned  by 
Guise.  Trinette  shook  her  and  called  her  a  whimper 
ing  fool.  "  Come  with  me,"  said  she,  "  and  listen  to  the 
ardour  of  this  lovers'  tryst." 

"  No  man  shall  betray  me !  "  moaned  Marie  Courtin. 

"  If  you  speak  again,  I  '11  strangle  you !  "  whispered 
Trinette,  leading  her  into  the  thicket  where  Modene  had 
disappeared. 

Guise  followed  too,  a  smile  on  his  lickerish  face;  yet 
the  three  were  not  seen  by  Madeleine,  wondering  and 
trembling  in  the  fading  light,  nor  by  Modene,  taking  his 
forward  steps. 

Pointing  to  Madeleine,  Renard  scampered  away.  To 
her  Modene  bowed  suavely;  to  Catherine  Bourgeois  he 


266  FAME'S    PATHWAY 

bowed  still  lower,  her  face  looking  winsome  in  the  sun's 
last  rays.  "  To  what  am  I  indebted  for  the  honour  of 
this  dual  visit  ?  "  he  asked,  a  sarcastic  smile  on  his  droop 
ing  lip 

Madeleine  paled,  but  her  eyes  never  left  his  face.  "  I 
have  come  because  I  need  your  help." 

The  nobleman  stroked  the  beard  on  his  chin.  "  So 
pride  has  thrown  you  at  last  ?  " 

"  It  has,  Remond.  Does  it  please  you  to  see  me  in  the 
dust?  " 

My  lord  of  Modene  saw  a  woman  he  had  loved  in  his 
tempestuous  way  make  a  pleading  gesture — saw  the  soft 
gleam  of  her  in  the  dying  day.  She  sought,  in  his  opin 
ion,  what  all  young  women  seek,  a  lover  fond  as,  he  flat 
tered  himself,  he  once  had  been  to  her.  Marie  Courtin's 
tongue  had  scathed  away  all  liking:  Madeleine's  worth 
he  remembered,  while  noting  how  fair  she  was,  and  how 
slender — save  for  a  fine  bosom.  Because  of  that  pliant 
form  of  hers,  base  love  coursed  through  him,  and  because 
of  the  past,  he  knew  her  not  to  be  of  spotless  snow, 
though  his  passion  was  somewhat  daunted  by  the  look 
her  brave  face  gave  him.  "  So  you  are  mine!  "  he  cried; 
"  mine  once  more ! "  He  tried  to  draw  her  to  him  and 
hold  her  face  to  his  lips;  but  she,  straining  away  from 
him,  fought  his  caresses  until  she  had  freed  herself. 

"  I  cannot,  Remond ;  by  my  soul,  I  cannot.  Ah,  won't 
you  listen  ?  I  do  so  need  your  help !  " 

"  Pardi,  I  am  no  almoner,"  he  laughed. 

"I  asked  for  the  chance  to  live  my  own  life.  You 
left  me  no  other  choice,"  she  said,  while  he  flecked  the 
grass  with  his  cane. 

His  words  betrayed  his  wounded  self-esteem.  "  A 
scatter-brained  actor !  A  sagacious  choice,  indeed." 


RENARD'S    GARDEN  267 

She  bowed  her  head,  but  went  on.  "  I  love  him ;  and 
because  a  debtor's  gaol  will  imprison  him,  I  come  to 
you — unknown  to  him,  I  swear  it.  You  serve  a  grand 
seigneur.  ...  A  few  livres — two  hundred  at  the 
most — will  stay  the  tide  of  our  misfortunes.  Ah,  be 
generous,  Remond,  be  generous !  " 

She  pleaded,  her  hands  outstretched;  but  Mod£ne  was 
ruthless.  "  You  made  your  own  bed.  If  it  be  a  pallet, 
lie  in  it.  I  but  quote  your  words." 

She  had  been  this  man's  creature,  but  later,  love  had 
filled  her  soul  with  light — had  chastened  her.  She  had 
the  courage  to  deal  squarely  with  herself — for  love  had 
taught  her  what  love  might  be.  "  He  is  so  young,  so 
inexperienced,"  she  said,  "  yet  he  has  fought  for  the 
ideals  be  believes  are  true — fought  until  his  last  denier 
is  gone.  Rather  than  humble  his  pride,  as  I  have  hum 
bled  mine,  he  will  let  the  doors  of  a  prison  close  on 
him." 

"Ma  foi!"  laughed  Modene,  " 't  is  the  place  for  a 
hot  head  to  cool." 

Out  of  the  depths  of  her  heart  she  poured  forth  her 
passion.  "  He  is  wilful,  Remond,  headstrong,  if  you 
like,  and  he  has  made  me  suffer  bitterly;  yet  I  love  him 
because  he  is  so  earnest,  so  sensitive.  I  have  seen  divine 
fire  in  his  splendid  eyes.  Some  day  I  shall  be  proud  of 
him,  even  though  my  heart  be  broken  by  the  very  faults 
I  love." 

"  Was  ever  man  forced  to  listen  to  a  harangue  on  a 
rival's  qualitie^i  ?  "  Modene  asked  himself.  "  It  but  makes 
me  ridiculous,  morbleu — ridiculous  in  the  eyes  of  yonder 
girl !  "  he  thought,  his  glance  resting  on  Catherine  Bour 
geois.  "  Hey,  my  pretty  one !  "  he  exclaimed,  taking  a 
step  toward  her  and  pinching  her  cheek  while  he  looked 


268  FAME'S    PATHWAY 

gayly  at  her,  "what  say  you?  Is  she  a  simpleton  who 
knows  no  better  than  to  prate  of  her  lover,  or  a  baggage 
who  seeks  to  whet  my  j  ealousy  ?  " 

"  My  lord,  she  is  the  truest  and  most  loyal  girl  in 
France,"  said  Catherine  Bourgeois,  her  eyes  kindling 
with  admiration. 

He  saw  the  fair  curve  of  Madeleine's  cheek — the  ruddy 
hair  that  seemed  to  burn  it.  "  A  pretty  golden  thrush," 
he  sneered,  "  should  not  mate  with  a  crow." 

"  A  better  choice  than  a  buzzard,"  said  the  girl,  but 
Madeleine  hushed  her  and  went  to  Modene.  She  was 
gentle  in  her  reasoning,  knowing  him  to  be  most  dogged 
when  his  pride  was  awake.  "  A  few  livres,  Remond;  then 
you  will  be  rid  of  me." 

"  To  keep  a  rogue  out  of  gaol  who  should  have  been 
there  long  ago!  I  have  better  use  for  my  livres." 

Modene's  head  was  high;  yet  he  would  have  heeded 
her  entreaty  save  for  the  wound  to  his  pride,  for  he 
adored  her  in  his  brutal  way,  and  there  were  ties  he  could 
not  sever.  Tears  stood  in  Madeleine's  eyes,  but  she  had 
the  hardihood  to  dry  them.  She  sought  to  woo  this  man's 
compassion  with  entreaty.  Her  voice  sounded  worn. 
"  A  woman  can  give  no  more  than  I  gave.  Ah,  please 
listen — for  the  sake  of  the  past,  for  the  sake  of  a  tiny 
grave ! " 

She  looked  sadly  down  at  the  grass,  where  night  was 
darkening  the  green;  and  he,  not  wholly  without  pity, 
now,  took  her  hand,  for  her  words  had  touched  him 
poignantly.  "  Madeleine,"  said  he,  "  something  is  due 
you,  I  confess." 

Seeing  the  pair  hand  in  hand,  Marie  Courtin,  listen 
ing  in  the  shadow,  could  be  restricted  no  longer.  "  A 
pretty  business ! "  she  said,  breaking  from  Trinette's 


RENARD'S    GARDEN  269 

grasp;  "a  pretty  business  indeed! — this  demonstration 
beneath  my  very  nose." 

"  Go  to  the  devil !  "  said  Modene.  His  cane  flickered 
in  the  air  and  he  would  have  struck  her,  but  for  Tri- 
nette's  mocking  laughter  as  she  stepped  through  the 
trees.  Guise  came  laughing  too,  and  their  mirth  made 
Modene  dumb  with  rage,  for  he  saw  he  had  been  made  to 
play  the  fool. 

Madeleine,  only  half  understanding,  looked  af- 
frightedly  about  her.  Marie  Courtin  broke  forth  afresh. 
"  You  shameless  hussy ! "  she  screeched  at  the  girl  she 
hated. 

"Don't  be  a  witling,"  whispered  Trinette  in  her  ear; 
and  while  she  silenced  her,  Guise  let  off  a  quip  or  two, 
guffawing  at  his  own  wit,  for  he  had  chaffed  his  gentle- 
man-in-waiting  as  a  luckless  squire  of  dames. 

Finding  himself  a  target  for  his  lord's  laughter,  Mo 
dene  waved  off  the  attack  with  an  appeal  that  recovered 
both  his  dignity  and  Madeleine's  hopes,  for  he  saw  that 
by  helping  her  he  might  help  himself.  "  You  may  laugh, 
your  grace,  yet  this  fair  lady  is  a  most  worthy  peti 
tioner,"  said  he,  indicating  Madeleine  with  a  gesture. 
"  She  asks  that  you  accord  your  protection  to  her  troupe 
of  players.  If  my  intercession  in  behalf  of  one  so  de 
serving  as  I  know  her  to  be,  is  a  just  cause  for  mirth, 
then  laugh  to  your  heart's  content;  for  I  vow  to  serve 
you  loyally  evibn  as  a  mark  for  merriment.  You  must 
acknowledge,  however,  that  when  I  left  His  Highness 
of  Orleans  to  follow  your  grace,  I  took  not  service  as 
a  jester." 

With  his  hat  against  his  heart,  Modene  bowed  low. 
Guise,  feeling  himself  snubbed,  knew  he  merited  it,  yet 
was  galled  none  the  less.  Still,  the  more  he  ruminated, 


270  FAME'S    PATHWAY 

the  more  simple  a  bounty  to  Madeleine  seemed  as  a  way 
of  riddance.  "  My  dear/'  said  he,  "  I  am  leaving  for 
the  wars.  A  share  in  my  wardrobe,  which  I  shall  dis 
tribute  among  the  actors  of  Paris,  is  all  I  can  promise; 
yet  it  will  be  a  goodly  share."  His  look  said,  "  It  is 
done;  now  leave  me  in  peace." 

Knowing  the  ways  of  grand  seigneurs,  Madeleine  ac 
cepted  the  boon  humbly,  though  her  heart  beat  a  wild 
tattoo  of  joy.  A  share  in  the  wardrobe  of  a  duke! 
Enough  to  satisfy  Dubourg  and  Fausser,  since  even  the 
meanest  fripper  would  loosen  his  purse-strings  for  booty 
so  rich.  When  she  and  Catherine  Bourgeois  departed, 
it  was  to  bear  the  glad  tidings  to  their  comrades. 

As  they  walked  away,  erect  and  rapidly,  Guise  opined 
that  he  was  hungry.  Modene  followed  him  toward  the 
bower,  his  eyes  fixed  in  vacancy;  for,  as  much  as  he 
could  love  woman  born,  he  loved  Madeleine — loved  her 
for  her  beauty,  her  sweetness,  and  proud  spirit,  and 
knowing  she  was  lost  to  him,  he  longed  to  seize  her  once 
more  for  himself. 

While  he  mused  and  Marie  Courtin  followed  petu 
lantly  his  steps,  Trinette  thought  of  some  things  she  had 
heard.  "  And  the  tiny  grave?  "  she  whispered,  gripping 
her  companion's  arm. 

"  The  parish  register  of  St.  Eustache  will  tell  you," 
said  Marie  Courtin. 

As  she  pondered  these  words,  Trinette  raised  her  eye 
brows,  but  not  her  eyes,  then  smiled  to  herself.  Soon 
she  was  too  deep  in  cajolery  to  remember  a  longing  that 
had  rent  her — for,  when  Guise  embraced  and  kissed  her, 
she  kissed  him  back  with  thoughts  of  a  coach  and  six. 
It  is  to  be  noted  that  her  promise  to  go  to  the  wars  was 
given  reluctantly. 


CHAPTER   VI 

THE  SACRISTY  OF   ST.   EUSTACHE 

KNOWING  Moliere's  jealous  nature,  Madeleine  said  not 
a  word  regarding  the  means  she  had  employed  in  ob 
taining  Monsieur  de  Guise's  favour.  When  his  cast-off 
garments  were  distributed,  as  happened  on  the  morrow, 
the  actors  of  the  royal  troupe  had  goodly  coats  to  wear. 
To  the  frippers  of  the  rue  de  la  Tonnellerie  went  the 
Illustrious  Theatre's  share — a  windfall  to  defer  its 
doom.  A  matter  of  envy,  too;  there  being  a  jealous 
fellow  with  a  knack  for  rhyming  who  penned  these  lines 
to  His  Grace,  though  he  had  not  the  courage  to  sign 
them: 

"Already,  in  the  royal  troupe, 
Sir  Beauchateau,  that  popinjay, 
Lets  his  impatient  spirit  droop, 
Whene'er  thy  gift  he  can't  display; 
La  B6jart,  Beys,  and  Moliere, 
Three  stars  of  brilliance  quite  as  rare, 
Through  glory  thine,  have  grown  so  vain 
That  envy  makes  me  loudly  swear 
I'll  none  of  them,  shouldst  thou  not  deign 
To  grant  me  clothes  as  fine  to  wear." 

Was  the  lampooner  Tristan?  More  likely  it  was 
Beys,  the  renegade,  wishing  the  world  to  think  him  still 
effulgent;  yet  his  identity  was  a  trifling  matter  beside 
the  troubles  that  beset  these  players  when  the  proceeds 
of  their  good  fortune  were  dissipated. 

Though  the  chestnuts  bloomed  in  the  Cours-la-Reine, 
May  went  out  in  gloom,  even  "  Artaxerxes "  failing  to 

271 


FAME'S   PATHWAY 

give  it  light;  then  June  came  in  to  the  clamours  of  im 
portunate  creditors.  A  depleted  troupe,  an  empty  treas 
ury,  and  the  theatrical  season  waning!  These  actors 
found  themselves  bitten  by  the  very  badgers  they  had 
hoped  to  draw  with  Guise's  gift.  The  woman  to  whom 
Moliere  had  pawned  his  keepsakes,  secured  a  judgment 
for  the  interest  due  her.  Fausser  the  chandler  obtained 
another  from  the  juges-consuls.  Secure  in  his  decree 
of  respite,  Pommier  held  aloof;  but  to  what  profit,  seeing 
that  fellow-leeches  could  not  be  shaken  off? 

Torrid  July  passed;  then  Moliere  was  again  pursued 
by  the  hounds  of  the  law.  To  devise  a  plan  of  escape 
for  him,  his  comrades  gathered  in  the  Black  Cross  Ten 
nis-Court.  There  they  held  a  futile  debate,  all  talking 
except  the  one  they  sought  to  save.  He,  deadly  pale, 
could  listen  only  for  the  dreaded  step  of  his  pursuers. 

With  Guise  and  Modene  at  the  wars,  Madeleine  knew 
that  no  more  crumbs  could  fall  from  their  table.  Her 
pride  seemed  to  have  been  vainly  sacrificed,  yet  she  strove 
to  cheer  her  lover  and  shame  her  comrades.  "  If  Mo 
liere  is  to  flee,"  said  she,  "  let  us  flee  with  him;  if  he 
is  to  be  gaoled,  let  us  share  his  punishment." 

At  this  there  was  a  murmur  that  grew  in  volume  until 
Joseph  Bejart  stammered  out;  "  Even  if  all  the  s-s-sheep 
are  counted,  the  w-w-wolf  will  still  eat  them." 

When  the  stutterer  had  done,  Moliere  answered  him, 
"  I  shall  take  my  punishment.  None  need  share  it." 

Madeleine  touched  his  arm.    "  Your  father  ?  "  she  said. 

A  tigerish  desire  to  fly  at  her  arose  within  him,  but  her 
unselfish  glance  shamed  him.  "  Acknowledge  myself 
beaten  ?  I  cannot !  I  cannot !  " 

"  Dear,"  she  said,  pitying  his  tempestuous  heart,  "  it 
is  the  only  way." 


THE    SACRISTY    OF   ST.    EUSTACHE       273 

Her  words  were  tainted  with  disgrace,  he  thought; 
and  when  her  hand  touched  his,  he  brushed  it  away;  for 
he  was  faint  with  worry  and  without  a  heart  for  affec 
tion.  Turning  away  petulantly,  he  strode  out  of  the 
room,  his  heart  overcome  with  a  desire  to  escape  from 
the  rasping  voices  of  his  comrades — from  Madeleine's 
compassion.  He  longed  to  commune  with  himself,  to  be 
alone,  to  know  no  one,  to  see  no  one,  to  pay  alone  the 
price  of  his  folly,  for  the  fruitless  struggle  of  two  years 
was  overwhelming  him. 

He  looked  at  the  blue  sky  and  the  grey  house  walls. 
Both  seemed  so  black  that  he  shut  his  eyes  and  let  the 
sun  play  upon  his  burning  face.  Like  the  cries  of  har 
pies  in  pursuit,  he  heard  the  hisses  and  groans  of  the 
pit,  the  taunts  of  his  unfeeling  friends;  then  uncon 
sciously  he  turned  his  steps  toward  his  father's  house, 
craving  a  crust  like  a  hungry  dog — ashamed  to  whine 
for  it. 

A  fit  of  uncontrollable  weeping  seized  him,  and  he 
ran  lest  the  wayfarers  see  his  face  blurred  with  tears 
he  could  not  arrest;  and  while  he  ran  he  pitied  himself 
and  hated  himself  and  grew  frightened  to  think  how 
solitary  he  was,  for  his  nerves  were  vibrant  with  dis 
tress — the  distress  of  failure.  The  undue  sensibility 
that  makes  the  artist's  clay  unlike  the  common  man's 
oppressed  him — not  fear — for  when  the  law's  hand 
touched  his  shoulder  he  would  go  bravely  enough,  he 
knew;  yet  alone  in  the  streets  of  Paris,  he  shed  unreas 
oning  tears,  and  his  misery,  thus  baptised,  became  a 
bitter  presage. 

Not  knowing  whither  he  went,  he  reached  the  market 
place.  Gladdened  by  the  familiar  click  of  the  pewterer's 
hammer,  the  shrill  cries  of  the  market  women,  he  has- 


FAME'S    PATHWAY 

tened  on.  Brought  almost  to  his  father's  door  by  his 
unstrung  nerves,  pride  stayed  his  steps ;  for  when  he  saw 
a  hateful  shop,  he  felt  that  he  would  rather  be  branded 
at  the  pillory  before  it  than  play  the  repentant  prodigal. 

Seized  with  a  sudden  yearning,  he  turned  toward  the 
Church  of  St.  Eustache,  towering  peacefully  above  the 
market's  din.  There  his  mother  had  prayed,  and  he 
longed  to  open  Heaven.  If  hemlock  had  been  placed 
by  the  Fates  at  his  door,  God  should  see  him  drink  it. 

But  the  Fates  had  brought  a  more  enticing  cup — 
though  none  the  less  poisonous;  for,  while  he  pined  so 
incoherently,  a  coach  with  ducal  arms  upon  its  panels 
rumbled  leisurely  through  the  traffic  of  the  square.  Upon 
its  high-swung  seat  sat  Trinette  Desurlis,  shipped  back 
to  Paris  in  this  grand  style  by  a  fickle  peer. 

Having  been  cavalierly  treated,  she  was  in  a  mood 
for  adventure,  and  seeing  a  sombre  lad  with  a  hunted 
look  in  his  eyes,  she  called  to  the  coachman  to  stop. 
Leaping  past  the  flunkey  who  opened  the  door,  she  ran 
nimbly  through  the  crowd,  crying,  "  Moliere !  Moliere !  " 

Hearing  his  name,  he  turned  with  a  start,  but  instead 
of  the  archer  of  police  his  fears  had  created,  a  pretty 
girl  was  speeding  towards  him.  Hers  was  a  fierce 
beauty,  vividly  coloured;  seeing  her  flashing  eyes,  he 
trembled,  for  he  had  not  the  courage  to  meet  her  taunts. 

But  she,  taught  cunning  by  experience,  pursued  a 
more  subtle  course.  She  was  forlorn,  she  told  him,  and 
longed  for  his  sympathy.  He  raised  her  hand  to  his  lips. 
His  wounded  self-esteem,  seeking  a  balm,  found  it  in 
her  pleading  glance.  She  told  him  of  Guise's  baseness. 
Soon  he  was  engaged  in  her  misery  and  sure  that  it  must 
be  very  like  his  own. 

Deftly  she  led  him  past  the  beggars  at  the  church 


THE    SACRISTY   OF   ST.    EUSTACHE      275 

door  to  the  cool  sanctuary  within.  The  sign  of  the  cross 
she  made,  then  a  sign  to  him;  for  the  church  was  St. 
Eustache.  To  the  sacristy  she  motioned  him. 

At  the  far  end  of  the  nave  in  which  they  stood,  can 
dles  flared  about  a  bier;  before  the  black-draped  altar, 
a  priest  was  intoning  a  requiem.  Choristers  were  chant 
ing  the  Office  of  the  Dead;  sombrely  gowned  women 
knelt  weeping. 

Shuddering  as  his  steps  resounded  through  the  shad 
owy  vastness  of  the  church,  Moliere  turned  to  follow  this 
girl,  in  whose  eyes  devilry  burned,  behind  whose  rouged 
lips  was  a  wicked  acquaintance  with  life.  The  incense, 
the  dimly  burning  candles,  the  quavering  voices  of  the 
singers,  filled  his  impressionable  heart  with  awe.  His 
soul  became  burdened  with  a  sense  of  the  unreality  of 
life — of  its  unavailing  bitterness,  and  he  was  drawn  into 
a  mysterious  sympathy  with  death.  To  lie  in  peace  be 
fore  a  lighted  altar,  while  the  choir  in  its  stalls  sang 
and  a  priest  intoned,  seemed  far  better  than  to  live 
harassed  and  wretched  as  he  had  lived.  "  Ah,  the  empti 
ness  of  life !  "  he  sighed,  with  the  pessimism  of  failure, 
for  he  had  yet  to  attain  the  fortitude  of  after  years. 

"Ah,  the  joy  of  triumph!"  thought  the  girl  who 
tripped  before  him,  in  contour  barely  more  than  a  child, 
so  slenderly  made  and  lithe  was  she.  At  the  door  of 
the  sacristy  she  turned.  "  I  hate  dead  people,"  she  whis 
pered.  "  See,  the  sun  is  shining  here  to  make  us  long 
to  live." 

The  sunlight,  streaming  through  the  window  to  which 
she  had  pointed,  enhanced  her  beauty.  A  shambling 
sacristan  swung  the  door  open  wide;  there  was  an  invi 
tation  in  her  glance — a  look  that  said,  "  Let  us  live  for 
the  joy  of  living!  " 


276  FAME'S    PATHWAY 

In  the  cool,  still  sacristy  was  a  fragrance  of  orris 
root  and  lavender.  Vestments  of  red  and  green  brocade 
were  laid  upon  the  shelves — copes  of  gold  and  white  with 
embroidered  hoods  and  orphreys.  The  sacristan  wished 
to  show  their  splendour,  but  Trinette  shook  her  little 
head  peremptorily,  assuaging  his  wounded  pride  by 
crossing  his  withered  palm.  In  response  to  a  whispered 
word,  he  brought  the  parish  register,  laid  it  before  her, 
dusted  it  with  the  sleeve  of  his  cassock,  opened  it  rev 
erently,  then  bowed  himself  off  with  his  rattling  keys 
to  stand  guard.  The  piece  she  had  given  him  was  of 
shimmering  gold.  For  it,  he  would  hold  the  door  against 
a  bishop. 

Moliere  was  standing  beside  the  girl,  very  silent.  He 
saw  her  turn  the  pages  quickly  backward  through  the 
years,  saw  her  scan  them  eagerly,  then  read  a  certain 
entry  with  great  care.  What  mystery  lay  behind  her  con 
tented  smile,  he  wondered ;  but  she  did  not  enlighten  him. 

Exquisite  little  courtesan,  with  her  shining  hair  and 
olive  skin,  she  was  more  than  a  match  for  him;  and 
knowing  the  egotism  of  his  sex,  she  led  him  away  from 
the  mystery  that  had  vexed  him  to  the  telling  of  his 
troubles.  The  actors  in  his  drama  loomed  large  in  his 
mind — his  fears  wore  buskins  to  enhance  their  height; 
and  when  he  told  her  that  archers  might  drag  him  to  a 
loathsome  gaol,  his  voice  had  the  shock,  his  face  the 
mask  of  tragedy,  he  had  failed  so  often  in  feigning. 

"  Poor  Moliere ! "  sighed  the  girl,  as  she  glanced  sym 
pathetically  into  his  eyes.  "If  Madeleine  had  known 
the  wealth  of  talent  you  possess — the  indomitable  cour 
age — she  would  not  have  played  you  false." 

"  Played  me  false !  "  he  exclaimed,  her  words  touch 
ing  a  new  chord  of  misery. 


THE    SACRISTY   OF   ST.    EUSTACHE       277 

"  Ah,  my  dear  friend,"  she  answered,  "  better  that  I 
should  give  you  pain  than  that  you  should  continue  this 
blind  faith  in  one  who  has  been  as  false  to  you  as  Mon 
sieur  de  Guise  has  been  to  me." 

"Another  of  your  base  lies,  Trinette,"  he  protested, 
now  angry  and  flushed,  "  the  lies  with  which  you  have 
ever  sought  to  poison  my  heart." 

Her  hand  touched  his  shoulder.  "  You  are  unkind, 
Moliere,  brutally  unkind.  Once  you  drove  me  from  your 
theatre;  now  you  accuse  me  without  a  hearing.  A  lie, 
you  say  ?  As  God  is  my  witness,  I  speak  the  truth !  " 

"  Perjure  not  yourself,  Trinette,"  he  said,  shifting 
away  from  her,  "  for  this  is  God's  house." 

She  tortured  the  faith  she  meant  to  kill.  "  She  loved 
you,  I  verily  believe — loved  you  while  he  was  away — 
but  when  he  returned  and  implored  her,  she  listened. 
Ah,  what  a  depth  of  love  a  woman  has  for  her  betrayer !  " 
She  paused  as  she  had  paused  that  day  in  the  road  near 
St.  Germain  to  watch  the  flight  of  this  self-same  shaft. 
Again  she  saw  him  wince  in  silent  pain. 

"  I  was  there,  Moliere,"  she  went  on,  furtively  watch 
ing  the  effect  of  her  words,  "  there  at  Renard's  Garden 
when  they  met.  Yes,  I  played  the  eavesdropper,  I  con 
fess,  because — ah,  because  of  my  interest  in  you. 
She  came  to  plead  for  help.  He  had  quarrelled  with 
Marie  Courtin,  so  he  listened;  and  while  he  listened,  his 
old  love  flamed  anew.  It  was  he  who  obtained  Monsieur 
de  Guise's  gift.  Men  such  as  he  do  not  help  a  woman, 
unless — ah,  my  poor  friend,  do  not  blame  her  too 
harshly.  There  were  ties  she  could  not  sever." 

His  dismayed  heart  could  only  murmur,  "  Ties !  irhat 
ties?" 

"  These ! "  she  exclaimed,  pointing  to  the  open  parish 


278  FAME'S   PATHWAY 

book.  Breathlessly  she  watched  the  poison  enter  his  soul 
— watched  his  face  quiver  in  a  look  of  agony,  as  he  read 
these  words: 

"On  Sunday,  the  eleventh  of  July,  1636,  was  baptised 
Francoise — born  Saturday,  the  third  of  the  present  month 
— daughter  of  Messire  Esprit  de  Re"mond,  lord  of 
Modene  and  other  places,  chamberlain  of  Monseigneur, 
the  king's  only  brother,  and  of  Mademoiselle  Madeleine 
Be"  j  art." 

His  eyes  faltered.  He  could  read  no  more.  On  that 
magic  isle,  when  Madeleine  had  told  him  of  the  past, 
never  a  word  of  this  had  she  breathed,  yet  here  was 
her  shame  publicly  blazoned  with  its  scandalous  details. 
Gathering  courage,  he  read  the  infamous  entry  to  the 
end.  Modene's  legitimate  son  and  heir,  the  godfather! 
His  sponsor,  Jean-Baptiste  de  1'Hermite,  the  henchman ! 
Marie  Herve,  the  godmother ! 

Before  this  evidence,  so  galling  to  him,  so  damning 
to  Madeleine,  his  heart  sank  until  it  left  a  void  in  his 
breast.  Where  love  had  been,  entered  mortification  and 
rage.  The  page  before  him  grew  black  from  wounded 
pride — his  eyes  refused  their  office.  Shaken  to  pieces 
by  the  odious  words,  he  flung  himself  forward  on  the 
open  book. 

Trinette  gripped  his  arm  to  steady  him.  "  Of  all  the 
cruelty  in  the  world,  love  is  the  most  cruel,"  she  said. 

He  raised  a  dry,  tearless  face.  "  Why  did  you  show 
me  this  ?  "  he  asked.  "  What  have  you  gained  by  it  ?  " 

"  I  have  gained  your  confidence.  No  longer  will  you 
doubt  me." 

Her  glance  was  imploring  then,  her  head  near  his 
shoulder.  "  Monsieur  de  Guise  was  generous  to  me," 
she  continued;  "ah,  let  me  pay  those  harassing  debts! 


His  eyes  refused  their  office 


THE    SACRISTY   OF    ST.    EUSTACHE 

At  the  theatre  du  Marais  I  have  influence.  A  place  in 
its  ranks  is  not  unworthy  of  your  splendid  talent." 

It  was  an  enticing  moment  in  which  the  vexing  past 
seemed  to  fade  before  a  vision  of  an  easy  future  with 
this  tawny  girl  to  brighten  it.  Madeleine's  love  was  a 
delusion;  her  kisses  a  mockery!  Yes,  there  was  the 
testimony  written  in  a  fine,  monkish  hand;  and  as  he 
dwelt  upon  her  seeming  perfidy,  rage  and  jealousy 
surged  in  his  mortified  heart.  His  soul,  stripped  of  its 
happiness,  stood  naked  on  a  brink.  A  swift  and  reck 
less  tide  flowed  temptingly  below.  To  shatter  it,  be 
fore  he  took  the  headlong  plunge,  he  trampled  on  the 
image  of  his  love. 

"Ah,  don't  be  a  dupe!"  cried  Trinette,  her  glance 
burning  through  him. 

Closing  his  eyes  in  a  vain  effort  to  beat  back  his  wild 
thoughts,  resistance  seemed  dead;  for  she  threw  her 
arms  about  him  suddenly  and  pressed  her  warm  lips  to 
his.  And  so  he  was  borne  down  by  the  furious  eddies. 

"  Moliere,  my  Moliere,"  she  sighed,  settling  con-f 
tentedly  into  his  arms,  "  I  have  waited  long  for  this 
moment,  waited  ever  since  that  day  in  Madeleine's  gar 
den." 

He  hated  her  for  the  triumph  she  had  won  over  him, 
and  tried  to  breast  the  waves  of  his  despair;  but  he  had 
not  the  strength  to  beat  them  back,  and  together  they 
were  borne  deeper  and  deeper.  The  kiss  he  gave  her 
then  was  the  fervent  kiss  she  craved. 

"  I  knew  you  would  be  mine,"  she  murmured,  "  for 
I  am  not  a  woman  to  be  withstood." 

The  selfishness  with  which  her  love  was  given  startled 
him,  and  even  with  temptation  tingling  in  his  flesh,  he 
was  taken  in  a  sudden  terror  of  her.  His  reason  seemed 


280  FAME'S   PATHWAY 

adrift,  his  will  stolen  from  him,  yet  his  agony  was  un- 
allayed.  Within  him  was  a  feverish  longing  to  escape 
from  this  temptress  and  flee  afar  to  some  haven  where 
his  heart  might  rest.  Even  when  his  fears  were  con 
sumed  in  her  caresses,  he  could  not  feel  that  he  was 
wholly  hers;  for  he  had  abandoned  only  the  miserable 
scrap  that  remained  after  a  torturing  jealousy  had  de 
voured  him — after  his  faith  had  been  racked  by  a  knowl 
edge  of  that  shame  of  long  ago. 

When  at  last  he  stood  at  the  church  door  with  the 
sunlight  dispelling  the  joy  of  a  passion's  sudden  awaken 
ing,  temptation  was  still  alive  in  his  breast,  but  with  it, 
a  vivid  sense  of  perfidy. 

Trinette  pointed  to  Guise's  coach.  "Love's  chariot 
awaits,"  said  she. 

He  paled,  but  stretched  out  a  refusing  hand.  "  I  can 
not  go  with  my  comrades  firm  in  their  belief  in  me,"  he 
said.  "  I  mean  to  tell  them  I  have  forsworn  the  cause 
I  have  held  so  dear." 

Her  eyes  grew  fierce  with  rage.  She  bared  her  teeth 
beneath  her  rouged  lip  and  snarled,  "  And  what  of  your 
canting  Madeleine?  Do  you  mean  to  snivel  to  her  as 
well?" 

"  She  has  deceived  me,"  he  said.  "  I  owe  her  noth- 
ing!" 

Trinette  watched  the  tortured  play  of  his  features. 
Her  stealth  was  that  of  a  cat,  but  her  claws  were  not  for 
him.  "  If  you  return  to  her,  I  shall  kill  her !  " 

Her  voice  had  a  cry  of  hate  in  it  to  cut  the  very  soul 
of  him,  but,  though  she  clung  to  him  closer  and  closer, 
imploring  him  not  to  forsake  her  in  that  moment  of  joy, 
he  would  not  listen.  Finding  him  immovable  to  caresses, 
she  pleaded  in  the  Gallic  way,  speaking  with  her  hands, 


THE    SACRISTY   OF   ST.    EUSTACHE       281 

her  shoulders,  head,  and  stamping  foot;  but  in  vain. 
Though  she  turned  from  hate  of  Madeleine  to  scorn  of 
him,  he  never  faltered  in  that  one  purpose  to  tell  his 
comrades  of  his  defection.  She  appealed  in  turn  to  his 
pity  and  his  passion,  appealed  shamelessly  before  a 
crowd  of  laughing  idlers ;  yet  he  stood  firm,  for,  though 
she  lavished  fond  words,  he  would  not  play  what  seemed 
to  him  a  coward's  part.  In  the  end,  she  broke  an  im 
ploring  speech  in  the  middle,  pushed  him  aside,  gave  a 
cry  of  anger,  and  ran  to  Guise's  coach. 

With  distrust  in  his  heart,  he  watched  her  mount  to 
the  high  seat;  yet  the  anguish  of  the  struggle  had  left 
him  too  weary  to  consider  the  issue  of  this  day.  When 
she  drove  past  him,  the  sight  of  her  beauty  made  his 
blood  flow  again  in  burning  pulsations.  "  An  hour," 
he  cried,  running  to  the  coach  door  and  seizing  her  little 
hand  to  kiss,  "  an  hour,  Trinette,  is  all  I  ask ;  then  I 
will  come  to  you  for  ever ! "  The  sunlight  hardened 
the  girl's  face,  but  he  saw  only  her  glancing  eyes  of 
invitation. 


CHAPTER   VII 

CATHERINE  BOURGEOIS  SPEAKS  HER  MIND 

MOLIERE  trudged  the  filthy  streets  of  the  Marais  quar 
ter,  a  band  of  iron  seeming  to  encase  his  throbbing  head 
— a  ruthless  band  drawn  tighter  by  each  step.  His  mus 
cles  ached,  his  nerves  twitched  painfully.  If  his  tears 
would  only  flow  again,  he  thought,  they  might  lessen  his 
suffering,  for  he  was  adrift  upon  a  sparless  wreck — 
a  parched,  demented  mariner  tossed  hither  and  thither 
by  the  waves  of  fate.  Through  the  blinding  mist  of  his 
misery  still  echoed  a  song  to  lure  him.  Its  promise  was 
a  life  free  from  failure — a  life  untortured  by  a  faithless 
love. 

When  he  reached  the  rue  des  Jardins,  the  street  of 
his  wretched  lodging,  he  entered  a  court-yard  where  the 
walls  were  moss-grown  and  the  cobbles  slimy.  Pale 
children  were  playing  with  the  chain  and  bucket  of  a 
well,  their  careworn  mothers  shrilling  gossip  as  they 
toiled.  The  foulness  of  the  place,  its  desolation,  made 
him  shudder,  and  as  he  groped  his  way  up  the  ladder- 
like  stairs,  he  felt  that  he  could  endure  no  longer  the 
straitened  life  poverty  had  forced  upon  him;  for,  in 
that  wretched  phalanstery  where  he  and  his  comrades 
had  their  common  lot,  was  nought  but  squalor  and 
misery. 

When  at  last  he  stood  panting  before  the  battered 
door  he  sought,  his  longing  to  be  unharassed  by  want 
and  debt — to  bask  in  the  sunshine  of  eyes  as  alluring 
as  Trinette's  had  seemed  that  day — had  become  an  obses- 


CATHERINE    BOURGEOIS    SPEAKS    283 

sion,  for  the  empery  of  himself  had  been  wrested  from 
him.  "God  help  me!  God  judge  me!"  he  moaned, 
dreary  and  undone.  Rabelais  had  died  in  that  street; 
death,  too,  was  in  Moliere's  thought. 

Madeleine,  helped  by  Catherine  Bourgeois,  was  cook 
ing  the  noon-day  meal.  On  hearing  his  step  upon  the 
threshold,  she  went  straightway  to  the  door.  Seeing 
his  worn  look,  to  gain  a  moment's  time,  she  motioned  him 
to  the  adjoining  room,  fearing  to  tell  him  a  piece  of  dire 
news.  Seeming  not  to  see  her,  he  sank  into  a  chair,  his 
hands  falling  limp  beside  him.  Quickly  she  poured  a 
beaker  of  cheap  wine. 

"  Drink  this,  dear,"  she  said ;  "  for,  though  it  is  bad, 
it  is  the  best  we  have." 

He  took  the  proffered  cup  and  drained  it.  Her  con 
cern  vexed  him,  the  tender  glance  of  eyes  he  felt  were 
false,  making  him  long  to  be  done  with  the  purpose  of 
his  coming.  "  Where  is  Joseph  ?  "  he  asked.  "  Where 
are  Clerin  and  Rabel  ?  " 

"  They  have  gone,"  she  replied,  "  gone  to  warn  you, 
for  the  officers  of  the  law  have  been  searching  here  for 
you." 

Lashed  by  the  misery  of  being  near  her,  he  thought 
not  of  the  danger,  but  of  her  shame,  her  treachery. 

"  They  may  take  me  where  they  will,"  he  sighed. 

She  saw  that  thoughts  he  kept  from  her  were  torment 
ing  him.  "  What  ails  you,  dear  ?  "  she  asked.  "  Tell 
me  of  your  grief,  and  upon  my  life,  I  will  rectify  it  if 
I  can." 

Her  words  seemed  laden  with  deception.  "  Rectify 
it?  Nothing  can  rectify  it!"  he  said,  turning  her  a 
pair  of  eyes  that  were  all  black.  "  Would  that  I  had 
never  seen  your  treacherous  face !  " 


2841  FAME'S   PATHWAY 

His  words  struck  a  terror  to  her  heart;  they  were  so 
brutal,  so  unmerited.  "  Moliere !  Moliere !  "  she  cried. 
"  Are  you  bereft  of  reason  ?  Are  you  mad  ?  " 

"  No,  I  am  not  mad,"  he  answered,  rising  from  the 
chair  in  which  he  sat,  "  I  have  merely  ceased  to  be  a 
dupe !  "  He  looked  at  her  scornfully,  noting  how  she 
took  it,  for  his  pity  had  been  deadened.  She  bore  it 
courageously,  though  her  heart  was  robbed  of  its  joy. 

"  You  have  ceased  to  be  worthy  of  my  love;  so  much 
is  clear,"  she  said  quite  calmly. 

He  had  not  meant  to  vent  his  rage,  for  he  had  come 
to  tell  his  comrades  that  he  should  no  longer  serve  them 
— come  to  do  it  openly,  and  to  withstand  their  curses. 
For  the  disgrace  Madeleine  had  withheld  from  him,  for 
her  infidelity,  silence  alone  should  be  the  punishment ;  but 
finding  her  blandly  tender  and  solicitous,  he  loathed  her 
for  the  hypocrite  she  seemed  to  him;  yet  even  in  that 
wild  moment,  he  had  felt  the  twinge  of  shame.  "  Worthy 
your  love ! "  he  sneered ;  "  you,  whose  fault  is  publicly 
recorded ! " 

She  winced  as  if  struck  in  the  face.  "  If  I  had  ever 
deceived  you,  Moliere,"  she  said,  her  hand  upon  her 
bosom  to  quell  the  pain  in  it,  "  I  might  pardon  those  un 
just  words;  but  when  you  implored  my  love,  I  told  you 
I  was  like  other  women  of  my  calling,  told  you  quite 
frankly.  Now  you  upbraid  me  for  this  fault  of  long 
ago,  upbraid  me  after  years  of  fidelity.  It  is  cruel, 
it  is  ungenerous.  I  have  done  nought  to  merit  it."  Here 
her  courage  seemed  to  leave  her,  for  she  began  to  strug 
gle  in  vain  with  her  tears. 

"  The  past  I  might  forgive,  but  not  the  means  you 
employed  in  obtaining  Monsieur  de  Guise's  gift,"  he 
moaned,  with  the  gesture  of  a  drowning  man.  "  Made- 


CATHERINE    BOURGEOIS    SPEAKS    285 

leine!  Madeleine!  how  could  you  make  a  traffic  of  your 
love  ? "  He  found  himself  weary,  even  of  reviling. 
Reaching  for  a  chair,  he  sank  into  it,  a  hand  upon  his 
aching  head. 

His  cruel  words  rang  in  her  ears  like  a  cry  to  arms. 
Pride,  unjustly  injured,  was  stirring  in  her,  and  though 
she  held  out  a  pleading  hand,  it  was  quickly  withdrawn. 
To  defend  herself  from  this  base  charge,  when  he,  not 
she,  was  false  to  their  love,  was  a  cowardly  act  to  which 
she  could  not  bend  herself.  She  knew  well  the  name  of 
her  accuser,  yet  wished  to  learn  it  from  his  lips — wished 
him  to  bear  witness  to  his  own  treachery.  "  Trinette 
has  returned !  "  she  said  at  last.  "  You  have  seen  her !  " 

He  did  not  affect  to  deny  it,  for  he  sat  limp  and 
silent.  Pride  tempered  her  agony,  and  she  dried  her 
tears. 

"  Long  ago  I  paid  the  penalty  of  a  girl's  implicit  love 
— as  a  grave  bears  witness.  Long  ago  I  learned  to  bear 
the  pain  of  it.  I  am  a  woman  now,  and  I  shall  not  weep 
for  a  love  contemptible  as  yours.  Do  you  remember  a 
prophecy  I  made  when  you  were  a  lover  kneeling  at  my 
feet?  '  If  I  listen,'  I  said,  'the  day  must  come  when 
you  will  long  to  wipe  out  the  step  I  let  you  take.'  Ah, 
Moliere,  the  day  I  prophesied  has  come.  I  am  the  suf 
ferer,  not  you;  yet  I  had  the  good  sense  to  foresee 
that  you  would  prove  unworthy.  And  so  you  have 
proved,  my  friend,  utterly  unworthy.  .  .  .  Nay, 
do  not  protest,  for  in  your  heart  you  know  that  it  is 
true." 

Drawing  herself  to  her  full  height,  she  stood  gazing 
down  at  him  huddled  there  in  a  crisis  of  pain  and  misery. 
A  tide  of  pity  swept  over  him,  and  for  a  moment  she 
yearned  to  kiss  and  mother  him  as  if  he  were  a  child; 


286  FAME'S   PATHWAY 

but  she  could  not  forget  that  he  had  had  the  meanness 
to  believe  the  vile  charge  of  a  woman  such  as  Trinette — 
to  believe  it  after  she,  the  patient  helpmate,  had  borne 
with  him  throughout  two  trying  years.  She  pitied  him 
for  failing  utterly;  yet  she  could  not  forgive  his  failure 
to  trust  in  her.  With  a  look  of  fortitude  in  her  proud 
face,  she  walked  directly  to  the  door  and  closed  it  after 
her;  the  manner  of  her  going  saying  more  clearly  than 
any  words  she  might  have  spoken :  "  You  are  free.  Go 
to  the  wanton  whose  poison  has  killed  your  faith,  and 
do  not  return,  for  I  have  done  with  you." 

When  she  was  gone,  he  sat  clutching  at  the  edge  of 
his  chair,  his  face  turned  toward  the  door.  His  lips 
quivered,  but  the  tears  he  longed  for  could  not  flow. 
Vaguely  he  pondered  her  words,  struggling  with  the 
injury,  the  truth  of  them.  That  she  had  wronged  him, 
and  now  herself  was  wronged,  was  his  conclusion;  and 
though  there  was  food  for  grim  humour  in  the  thought, 
there  was  none  for  him,  he  being  utterly  miserable,  and 
in  his  heart,  ashamed.  Still,  among  the  wretched  feelings 
he  had,  resentment  prevailed;  for  he  had  done  nought 
but  defend  his  manhood,  and  she,  canting  girl,  had  bar 
tered  herself:  so  his  man's  egotism  sought  to  extenuate 
his  meanness. 

In  her  perilous  position,  Madeleine  had  acted  wisely. 
Reproaches  he  could  have  met  with  recriminations,  but 
the  fine  way  in  which  she  had  received  his  ungenerous 
onslaught,  her  manner  of  merging  her  pain  in  a  spirit 
of  loftiness — yes,  even  of  sympathy — had  made  him  feel 
despicable.  Never  had  she  appeared  so  transcendent; 
now  she  had  gone,  his  manliness  tried  hard  to  cry  out 
that  he  had  been  a  coward.  In  his  overwrought  brain, 
;woe  and  fear  were  in  a  tumult  with  pride — fiends  of  the 


CATHERINE    BOURGEOIS    SPEAKS    287 

hell  his  soul  had  become;  for,  in  the  shattered  state  to 
which  anxiety  and  unrewarded  endeavour  had  brought 
him,  there  was  no  clearness  of  vision — no  sane  reasoning 
nor  hardihood  of  well-being.  He  was  sick  unto  despair, 
and  the  world  a  black  cavern  with  rotting  walls  that 
soon  must  fall  and  crush  him. 

For  a  long  time  he  sat  there  without  the  courage  to 
rise  and  go  forth.  The  one  thought  that  became  dom 
inant  was  his  promise  to  Trinette;  yet  he  had  no  desire 
to  keep  it,  for  he  was  afraid  of  her  as  well  as  of 
himself,  afraid  to  move,  afraid  to  think.  To  rest 
for  ever  was  his  wish,  and  even  a  prison  seemed  a 
a  resting  place.  Let  the  officers  come;  they  would  find 
him  ready. 

He  became  conscious  at  last  of  the  opening  of  a  door 
— of  a  step  upon  the  floor.  When  he  dared  to  look,  he 
saw  the  tantalising  baby  eyes  of  Armande  Bejart,  her 
curls,  and  her  chubby  arms.  Seizing  her  frenziedly, 
he  drew  her  to  him,  hugging  her  to  his  breast  so  im 
petuously  that  she  cried  out  in  pain  and  had  to  be  soothed 
with  his  kisses. 

"  Armande,  my  sweetheart,"  he  cried,  "  why  are  not 
grown  women  innocent  and  pure  like  you?  Why  must 
there  ever  be  some  past  with  its  shame?  Ah,  if  I  could 
only  teach  you  to  know  no  love  but  mine,  if  I  could 
keep  you  innocent  through  life — ah,  little  sweetheart, 
then  should  I  be  happy,  and  this  wretched  life  of  mine 
worth  the  living !  " 

Not  understanding,  the  child  gazed  wonderingly  into 
his  tortured  face.  "  What  Mo-mo  want  ?  "  she  asked. 

"  Love !  "  he  cried  out  in  despair ;  "  love !  "  Swiftly 
he  clasped  her  to  his  heart,  while  the  tears  he  had  longed 
for  flowed  freely.  His  heart  came  throbbing  to  his 


288  FAME'S   PATHWAY 

throat,  its  ebbing  misery  draining  it  of  all  except  the 
hope  that  this  one  love  which  seemed  so  pure  might  last 
and  never  be  defiled. 

In  womanhood  he  saw  her,  a  lovely  rose  in  bloom,  her 
heart  full  opened  with  a  woman's  love:  but  the  child  saw 
only  a  vexing  man  who  did  not  laugh  and  play  with  her 
as  was  his  wont,  a  man  who  wet  her  with  his  tears  and 
hurt  her  in  his  tight  embrace.  With  her  little  fists  she 
struck  him  and  forced  herself  free,  then  pointed  a  tiny 
finger  in  scorn.  "  Cry-baby !  cry-baby !  "  she  taunted 
him  with  a  childish  laugh.  "  Make  funny  faces,  then 
Armande  love  Mo-mo." 

"  Again  the  turkey  of  farce !  "  he  sighed ;  and  angrily 
dried  his  tears,  for  the  child's  mockery  had  left  him  at 
the  mercy  of  Trinette.  Walking  to  the  door,  he  flung 
it  open  with  a  jar  that  shook  the  rafters.  Upon  the 
threshold  he  met  Bej  art,  the  stutterer.  "  I  am  going, 
Joseph,"  he  said,  brushing  him  aside.  "  Madeleine  will 
tell  you  why."  Fighting  for  breath,  afraid  lest  he  falter 
again,  he  hastened  through  the  dark  hall  till  a  woman's 
hand  seized  the  sleeve  of  his  doublet. 

"Wait,  Moliere,  wait!  for  I  must  have  word  with 
you."  The  voice  was  that  of  Catherine  Bourgeois.  Ill- 
naturedly  he  turned  and  shook  her  off  and  ran  down  the 
steep,  reeky  stairs  he  had  ascended  so  wearily.  To  es 
cape,  to  be  free,  never  to  see  that  wretched  habitation 
or  its  inmates  more,  were  the  thoughts  that  crowded  his 
febrile  brain. 

But  Catherine  Bourgeois  was  not  to  be  so  easily  re 
pulsed,  for,  while  he  ran,  she  ran,  too,  until,  in  the  moss- 
grown  court-yard  below,  she  overtook  him. 

"What  do  you  want?"  he  asked,  brought  to  bay  at 
last  by  this  slim,  panting  girl,  her  chestnut  hair  dis- 


CATHERINE    BOURGEOIS    SPEAKS    289 

bevelled,  her  dowdy  dress  undone,  her  pale  lips  trem 
bling  with  emotion. 

"  I  was  in  the  kitchen.  The  door  was  ajar.  I  heard 
what  you  said  to  Madeleine — I  saw  her  eat  her  heart  out 
for  you,  Moliere.  You  behaved  like  a  scoundrel!  You 
do  not  deserve  a  true  woman's  love !  " 

"  Since  you  make  so  bold  as  to  call  me  harsh  names/' 
he  answered  her  stingingly,  "  let  me  tell  you  that  Made 
leine's  lover  is  the  Baron  de  Modene,  not  I !  " 

White  and  furious,  she  shook  the  arm  she  had  grasped 
to  restrain  his  flight.  Her  words  ran  from  her  in  a  flood 
of  protest,  half  bitter,  half  entreating:  "  I  was  with  her 
when  she  went  to  Renard's  Garden.  I  heard  her  plead 
for  Monsieur  de  Modene's  assistance,  yes,  plead  because 
of  her  love  for  you.  To  his  evil  lips  she  told  him  of  it 
while  he  implored  her  to  return  to  him.  Because  Mon 
sieur  de  Guise,  and  that  vile  creature  whose  word  you 
believe,  overheard  her,  he  made  a  show  of  generosity  to 
save  his  wicked  face.  With  me  she  came  away,  not  a 
word  of  love  having  passed  her  lips;  and  from  that  day 
to  this  she  has  not  seen  him — has  he  not  been  at  the  wars 
with  his  master?  " 

Gaining  passion  as  she  spoke,  she  went  on,  her  hands 
fluttering,  her  voice  breaking:  "  It  was  your  safety 
she  sought,  not  hers!  Fausser  and  Dubourg  had  come 
with  a  warrant  for  your  arrest.  She  fought  them  off 
with  promises;  and  to  obtain  sufficient  money  to  stay 
their  greed,  she  tramped  afoot  to  Renard's  Garden  under 
a  sweltering  sun,  there  to  plead  for  you  to  the  man  you 
basely  accuse  of  being  her  lover.  There,  Moliere,  that 
is  the  truth,  as  God  is  my  witness !  Go  to  the  drab  who 
has  bewitched  you,  if  you  will;  but  you  do  not  go  un 
knowing  this." 


290  FAME'S   PATHWAY 

Abhorrence  possessing  her,  she  turned  away.  Smart 
ing  from  the  lashing  she  had  given  him,  he  stood  trem 
bling  both  from  anger  and  shame,  yet  stung  with  mis 
giving.  If  she  spoke  aright,  he  was  a  miscreant;  yet 
those  hot  words  might  have  been  cooked  by  Madeleine 
and  given  this  girl  to  serve.  His  glance  fell  on  the  stairs 
he  had  descended.  "  No !  "  whispered  the  voice  of  the 
mean  spirit  lurking  in  his  breast;  "it  is  futile  to  re 
turn,  for  she  will  not  pardon  you.  It  is  wiser  to  go 
straightway  into  the  fond  arms  that  await  you.  Only 
thus  may  you  end  this  torture." 

Contending  passions  filled  his  heart — impelling  him 
to  go  to  the  temptress,  to  stay  his  steps,  to  laugh  at  his 
qualms,  to  heed  his  generous  impulses,  to  go  far  away 
and  never  see  malignant  Paris  more,  or  better  still,  to 
throw  a  useless  body  in  the  Seine  and  let  a  tormented 
soul  escape  from  its  thrall.  With  a  cry  of  anguish,  he 
turned  without  reasoning  why — a  deplorable  temptation 
goading  his  steps,  for  the  thought  of  a  restful  river  had 
grown  strong  within  him.  To  its  bank  he  hastened, 
there  to  watch  it  flow  unceasingly  toward  Rouen,  where 
his  hopes  had  risen.  His  life  was  at  its  nadir,  dark  and 
tedious  as  that  river  speeding  toward  the  infinite  sea. 
Let  it  bear  him  thither ! 

Seized  with  this  unconscionable  thought,  he  leaped 
the  parapet  of  the  quay  on  which  he  stood,  and  ran  to 
the  water's  edge. 

The  Seine  was  alive  with  barges  and  wherries;  ship 
wrights  were  singing  merrily.  The  river  flowed  entic 
ingly;  yet  pride,  the  mentor  of  youth,  told  him  that  if 
he  were  hauled  dripping  from  the  stream,  amid  the 
laughter  of  those  merry  artisans,  he  would  present  but 
a  sorry  picture.  Moreover,  he  was  utterly  exhausted  and 


CATHERINE    BOURGEOIS    SPEAKS 

feared  that  he  had  not  the  strength  to  force  his  wretched 
head  beneath  the  waves.  To  his  feverish  vision,  the 
brown  river  and  the  yellow  sands  grew  dark  as  his 
tormenting  thoughts.  Overcome  by  sheer  fatigue,  he 
flung  himself  beneath  the  prow  of  a  stranded  barge.  To 
rest  in  its  shade  till  nightfall  was  his  wish;  then,  when 
the  shipwrights  and  the  boatmen  were  gone,  the  river 
black  and  silent — to  rest  for  ever! 

When  he  awoke,  the  day  was  only  waning;  yet  even  a 
fitful  sleep  had  so  refreshed  him  that  he  arose  with 
some  little  bravery  in  his  heart.  Gazing  at  the  river, 
he  shuddered,  for  it  was  no  longer  tempting ! 

"  The  hour  of  four ! "  he  thought,  as  the  clock  on  the 
Pump  of  La  Samaritaine  struck  the  time.  "  Have  my 
comrades  attempted  to  play  this  day  ?  "  Ah,  what  had 
they  thought  of  him,  he  wondered,  the  deserter !  the  cow 
ard!  ay,  thrice  a  coward!  There  was  no  other  word 
for  him. 

Wearily  he  dragged  his  stiffened  body  to  its  feet;  for, 
although  he  had  shattered  his  love  in  irreparable  frag 
ments,  he  had  not  withstood  his  comrades'  scorn.  A 
craven,  leaving  the  woman  he  had  spurned  to  tell  of  his 
going  while  he  skulked  away — that  was  the  pitiful  figure 
he  made.  Moreover,  if  the  story  he  had  been  told  of 
her  fidelity  was  true,  he  was  unworthy  to  touch  the  hem 
of  her  garment.  But  the  past  was  beyond  redress.  He 
must  choose — the  wanton  way,  or  the  way  of  duty. 

In  his  mind  was  a  vision  of  the  temptress.  The  air 
was  fragrant  with  lavender;  her  glance  was  imploring. 
"  Monsieur  de  Guise  was  generous  to  me,"  her  red  lips 
murmured ;  "  ah,  let  me  pay  those  harassing  debts ! " 

He,  beholden  to  a  woman  for  his  debts !  His  awakened 
manhood  cried,  "  Perish  the  thought ! "  and,  trembling 


FAME'S   PATHWAY 

with  the  shame  of  it,  he  stepped  forth  vigorously,  in  his 
heart  a  firm  resolution  to  face  his  comrades'  anger  like 
a  man,  to  bear  the  sting  of  Madeleine's  contempt. 

In  the  sand  at  his  feet  he  saw  a  piece  of  shining  metal. 
A  silver  livre!  Bright  omen  of  the  future!  Enough  to 
stay  his  hunger  too,  he  thought,  for  he  was  sorely 
famished. 


CHAPTER    VIII       . 

IN    THE    LAND    OF    THE    BLIND 

WHEN  Moliere  left  the  lodging  in  the  rue  des  Jardins, 
Madeleine  set  herself  to  the  doing  of  her  household 
tasks  with  so  little  perturbation  that  her  comrades 
thought  she  had  suffered  no  more  than  a  momentary 
ruffling  of  her  accustomed  calm — a  passing  shower  to 
redden  her  eyes  with  its  tears,  but  not  the  bitter  deluge 
that,  in  its  sudden  flooding  of  her  heart,  had  drowned 
all  joy. 

But  she  was  not  a  woman  to  whimper.  "  Love,"  she 
thought,  "  is  a  gossamer  the  faintest  breath  may  tatter. 
Mine  has  been  shredded  by  the  four  winds.  Faith,  I 
must  weave  a  new  web  for  my  life,  and  love  is  not  the 
only  thread  to  weave  with.  Happiness  is  only  the  habit 
of  doing  right — a  far  more  enduring  fabric  than  love, 
I  trow."  Thus  she  argued ;  and  when  her  brother  Joseph 
came,  she  was  bearing  her  misery  with  fortitude. 

"  M-m-moliere,"  Bejart  stuttered,  "told  me  to  ask 
you  why  he  went  so  hastily." 

"  The  officers  of  the  law,"  said  Madeleine  evasively. 

"  Does  he  think  to  avoid  them  by  r-r-running  into 
their  arms?  Sacredieu!  he  is  as  cunning  as  Gribouille, 
h-h-hiding  in  the  water  for  fear  of  the  rain." 

Madeleine  said  nothing,  but  went  about  her  work. 
When  Catherine  Bourgeois  returned,  she  motioned  her  to 
silence,  Bejart,  meantime,  bethinking  him  of  a  new 
trouble.  "  With  Moliere  g-g-gone,"  he  sighed,  "  we 
cannot  p-p-play  this  day." 

*93 


294;  FAME'S    PATHWAY 

Madeleine  answered  him  with  resolution  in  her  voice. 
"  I  will  enact  his  part,  for  I  am  tall  and  shall  make  a 
tolerable  man.  I  know  the  play  well.  When  Rotrou 
penned  it,  he  read  his  verses  to  me  in  order  that  he 
might  judge  of  their  resonance.  Listen,  Joseph: 

"'Thy  dying  Hercules,  in  Heaven  or  earth, 
Brings  glory  to  immortalise  thy  name; 
And  leaving  here  a  temple  to  thy  fame, 
His  pyre  becomes  an  altar  to  thy  birth.' 

"  I  wrote  those  lines  myself  to  glorify  this  very  play. 
Believe  me,  I  know  it  by  heart.  My  own  part  is  not 
burdensome.  Catherine  Bourgeois  may  double  it  with 
her  own,  for  I  shall  be  near  to  prompt  her  when  she 
falters." 

Her  cup  of  bitterness  seemed  overflowing,  and  she 
was  forced  to  fight  back  her  tears;  yet  she  went  reso 
lutely  to  the  theatre  and  donned  the  costume  Moliere 
should  have  worn — a  Hercules  of  moral  strength,  for 
beneath  the  lion's  skin  she  wore,  throbbed  a  valiant  heart, 
though  near  to  breaking. 

A  handful  of  boatmen  and  stevedores  from  the  near 
by  quays  composed  the  audience — in  numbers  scarcely 
more  than  the  players  upon  the  stage.  The  pickpockets 
held  aloof — there  being  no  pockets  worth  the  picking; 
the  king's  musketeers  had  long  ceased  to  grace  that 
moribund  play-house. 

Feeling  that  its  knell  had  been  sounded  that  day,  the 
actors  played  listlessly,  Madeleine  alone  acting  with 
verve  and  courage.  Like  the  Hercules  she  simulated,  she 
felt  that  her  life  was  filled  with  thankless  tasks;  still 
she  played  as  she  had  never  played,  wringing  deep  pity 
for  the  woes  she  feigned,  though  her  own  were  an  an 
guish  to  moisten  her  eyes  with  the  tears  of  them.  The 


IN    THE    LAND   OF    THE    BLIND      295 

few  who  saw  her  felt  her  art  was  transcendent,  and  they 
applauded  her  lustily  for  the  hero  she  appeared  to  them ; 
yet,  to  herself,  she  was  only  a  woman  hiding  the  wound 
in  her  breast  from  unfeeling  eyes — a  wretched  woman, 
whose  love,  like  a  dead  flower,  lay  faded  and  bruised 
at  the  feet  of  him  who  had  plucked  it. 

Not  for  the  world  would  she  let  her  comrades  see  her 
bosom  bared  to  the  steel  of  Moliere's  disdain,  so  she 
played  her  part  unflinchingly  until  the  curtain  fell  upon 
the  tragedy — then  doirned  a  baldrick  and  rapier  to  be  the 
bravo  of  the  farce  to  follow.  Her  braggadocio  and  her 
strides  made  her  appear  a  swaggering  man  though,  in 
truth,  she  was  a  trembling  girl  wondering  when  pride 
would  fail  her.  The  laughter  she  evoked  failed  to  com 
fort  her;  and  when  the  meagre  audience,  loud  in  its 
praise  of  her,  filed  out  of  the  theatre,  she  dared  not  fol 
low  her  mates  to  the  tiring  room  lest  they  divine  her 
distress.  Her  task  was  ended,  her  courage  gone,  and 
too  dispirited  to  move,  too  dazed  to  think  clearly,  she 
stood  bewildered  in  the  centre  of  the  stage,  a  hand 
clasped  upon  her  breast,  her  eyes  fixed  in  vacancy. 

An  old  comrade  who  had  been  in  the  theatre  that  day 
— Charles  Dufresne,  the  actor  who  had  offered  her  em 
ployment  in  his  strolling  troupe — came  to  congratulate 
her  upon  her  fine  playing.  In  the  silent  theatre,  he 
found  her  dejected  and  alone,  her  plumed  hat  lying 
crumpled  at  her  feet,  her  rapier  hanging  limp  from  its 
baldrick. 

"  My  dear,"  said  he  cheerily,  "  in  all  your  life  you 
never  played  so  well." 

Startled  by  the  sound  of  his  voice,  she  wavered  for  a 
moment,  but  quickly  recovered  from  the  fainting  that 
had  seized  her.  "  I  am  dead  with  fatigue,"  she  said. 


296  FAME'S   PATHWAY 

"  To  play  roles  so  foreign  to  my  talent,  was  an  undue 
strain." 

"  Where  is  Moliere  ?  "  asked  Dufresne,  half  sus 
pecting  the  truth. 

Her  heart  sank  to  the  depths  of  her.  "  Ah,  my 
friend,  a  warrant  has  been  issued  for  his  arrest.  He 
is  evading  the  officers;  so  I  am  forced  to  play  his  roles. 
Do  you  wonder  that  I  am  tired  ?  " 

"  Nay,  Madeleine,"  said  the  veteran  in  a  kindly  tone, 
"  I  wonder  only  that  you  persevere  in  this  wretched 
enterprise." 

"  True,"  said  she,  the  pathetic  light  in  her  eyes  speak 
ing  for  her.  "  Better  had  I  accepted  the  proffer  of  a 
place  in  your  ranks." 

"  It  is  not  too  late,"  he  answered.  "  I  go  to  Bor 
deaux  to-morrow.  If  your  brother  and  yourself — ay, 
and  your  sister  Genevieve  too — wish  to  join  me 
there " 

"  And  Moliere  ?  "  she  asked  furtively ;  yet  the  moment 
she  had  spoken  his  name,  her  love  for  him  lay  like  lead 
in  her  heart. 

"  Ay,  Moliere  too,"  laughed  Dufresne,  "  though  for 
your  sake,  not  his,  since  I  hold  his  talent  to  be  the 
stuffing  of  chairs." 

But  she  was  steadfast  to  the  genius  of  the  man  who 
had  deserted  her — steadfast  to  her  love,  had  she  dared 
confess  it.  "The  day  may  come,  Dufresne,  when  you 
will  repent  those  words." 

"When  it  does,  I  shall  eat  them,"  said  the  actor, 
gallantly  kissing  her  hand. 

When  he  was  gone,  she  sank  upon  a  chair,  her  arms 
upon  the  back  of  it,  her  face  hidden  in  her  arms.  Every 
cruel  word  Moliere  had  uttered  had  seared  her  heart, 


IN    THE    LAKD   OF    THE    BLIND      297 

yet  not  so  painfully  but  that  she  pitied  him  while  pity 
ing  herself.  In  some  way  she  must  save  him.  This  was 
her  duty  as  she  conceived  it;  yet  when  it  came  to  the 
manner  of  it,  she  was  at  a  loss  for  guidance. 

For  a  long  time  she  sat  motionless,  pondering  her 
distress.  Then  little  Armande  Bejart  came  romping  to 
the  stage  and  found  her  there.  Her  mother  was 
now  wardrobe  mistress  to  the  impoverished  company; 
so  the  child  was  brought  to  the  theatre  whenever  there 
was  a  performance  in  order  that  a  watchful  eye  might 
be  kept  upon  her.  Hearing  her  sister's  step,  Made 
leine  drew  her  hand  up  quickly  and  smiled  to  hide  her 
dej  ection. 

"  Armande  want  Mo-mo ;  Armande  want  cock-horse." 

"  Moliere  is  gone,"  answered  Madeleine  sadly.  "  He 
will  not  play  with  you  any  more." 

For  a  moment  the  child  stood  with  a  puzzled  look  in 
her  tiny  eyes,  then  turning  to  her  sister,  she  said  in  a 
tone  of  contempt,  "  Mo-mo  gone  'cause  he  no  love 
Mada." 

"  Hush,  Armande,  hush ! "  said  Madeleine,  the  tears 
that  dimmed  her  eyes  making  the  child  laugh 
mockingly. 

"  When  Armande  big  girl,  she  no  cry  for  Mo-mo. 
She  make  Mo-mo  cry " 

"  You  little  imp ! "  cried  the  actress,  shaking  her, 
then  kissing  her  fondly.  "  Ah,  if  ever  you  dare  to  say 
such  cruel  things  again !  But  you  did  not  know  that  you 
were  breaking  my  heart — you  did  not  know.  Come, 
let  us  play  together  and  forget  that  he  is  gone.  I  will 
be  the  cock-horse." 

Brushing  her  tears  away,  she  threw  one  leg  across  the 
other  and  trotted  the  child  upon  her  outstretched  foot 


298  FAME'S    PATHWAY 

as  she  had  seen  Moliere  do.  To  stifle  the  pain  in  her 
heart,  she  sang  this  old  song;  its  simple  words  express 
ing  the  depth  of  her  own  love: 

"  If  the  king  had  given  me 
Paris,  his  great  town, 
Then  demand  that  I  agree 

On  my  love  to  frown, 
Thus  King  Henry  I  should  pray: 

'  Keep  Paris  as  of  yore ; 
I  love  my  darling  more,'  I'd  say, 
'  I  love  my  darling  more.' " 

Her  comrades  and  her  mother,  emerging  from  the 
tiring  room,  found  her  singing  to  the  child.  In  the 
farce  in  which  she  had  played,  there  had  been  a  mock 
duel.  The  rapier  thrown  away  by  a  trembling  clown 
in  his  fright  lay  upon  the  stage.  Joseph  Bejart  picked 
it  up,  and  when  he  pricked  her  with  its  point,  she 
uttered  a  startled  cry  and  sprang  to  her  feet. 

"  Like  the  eels  of  Melun,  s-s-sister,  thou  squealest 
before  thou  art  flayed,"  said  Bejart,  laying  the  sword 
on  the  chair  she  had  left;  "yet  thou  d-d-deservest  to 
be  flayed,  since  this  is  no  time  for  s-s-singing.  Not  a 
denier  to  pay  our  debts !  That,  in  p-p-plain  French, 
is  our  predicament.  In  the  land  of  the  b-blind,  the 
lame  are  k-k-kings.  If  ever  there  was  a  lame  1-1-leader, 
it  is  thou." 

"  Ay,"  shrilled  Marie  Herve,  "  thou  and  the  mis 
creant  who  bewitched  thee !  The  last  sou  is  gone,  so  he 
leaves  thee  in  the  lurch.  A  pretty  lover,  even  for  a 
dalliance  like  thyself!" 

Even  the  child  whose  hand  Madeleine  held  drew 
away  from  her,  but  she  held  her  tightly,  while  trembling 
with  the  shame  of  this  public  torture.  Her  heart  still 


IN    THE    LAND    OF    THE    BLIND      299 

thrilled  with  the  persistent  hope  that  some  day  she  should 
be  justified  in  Moliere's  eyes,  for  loyalty,  she  knew,  had 
purged  her  fault  of  long  ago.  Her  family  might  revile 
her,  but  she  was  full  of  the  consciousness  of  having  done 
right.  The  strength  of  it  made  her  turn  to  them  and 
say  with  firm  lips: 

"  I  have  no  excuse  to  make.  I  have  done  what  I 
deemed  wisest.  We  have  failed,  but  Paris  is  not  all  of 
France.  Let  us  begin  anew." 

She  turned  her  head  slowly  from  face  to  face.  Her 
mother's  little  eyes  burned  furiously  with  rage,  her 
brother's  were  sullen,  her  sister  Genevieve's  unpitying. 
Germain  Clerin  stood  gazing  at  the  floor — a  despondent 
look  in  a  face  that  hitherto  had  glowed  with  loyalty. 
Young  Rabel  was  eyeing  Catherine  Bourgeois  fondly 
while  waiting  for  her  decision,  for  he  had  joined  this 
hapless  company  through  love  of  her  and  would  stay 
true  while  she  stayed  true.  This  faithful  girl  alone 
did  not  demur. 

"  In  truth,  Paris  is  not  all  France,"  said  she,  ad 
dressing  her  words  to  the  stutterer,  "  nor  are  you  all 
this  company,  Joseph  Bejart.  I,  for  one,  will  let  Mad 
eleine  lead  me  whither  she  will.  Since  Paris  will  have 
none  of  us,  to  the  king's  high  road,  say  I.  In  Rouen  we 
were  welcome.  To  Rouen  let  us  go,  and  if  the  hearts 
there  have  grown  cold,  then  to  the  confines  of  France 
ere  we  say  die." 

When  she  stopped,  out  of  breath,  and  feeling  some 
pride  at  having  spoken  so  zealously  when  those  who 
should  have  been  most  zealous  stood  dumb,  even  Bejart 
grunted  approval,  while  Marie  Herve's  tongue  was  awed 
into  silence. 

"By  my  troth,  Catherine  Bourgeois,"   cried   Made- 


300  FAME'S   PATHWAY 

leine,  her  eyes  alight  with  gratitude,  "  you  are  a  brave 
girl!     From  the  depths  of  my  heart  I  thank  you." 

Meaning  to  kiss  her,  she  went  toward  her  with  her 
arms  outstretched,  but  her  step  recoiled.  Seizing  little 
Armande  Bejart,  she  drew  her  instinctively  to  her  as  if 
to  protect  both  the  child  and  herself;  for  through  the 
faded  curtains  on  the  stage  came  Trinette  Desurlis — 
with  the  stealth  of  a  panther — her  tawny  face  on  fire, 
her  eyes  savage  with  hate.  White  and  rigid  as  marble, 
Madeleine  bravely  watched  her  enemy  approach  and 
waited  for  her  to  speak.  With  her  gypsy  skin  and  a 
crimson  kerchief  at  her  neck,  Trinette  was  a  picture  of 
malevolence.  The  actors,  divining  the  reason  of  her 
coming,  made  way  for  her. 


CHAPTER  IX 
THE  DEVIL'S  OWN 

COMING  from  the  tavern  where  he  had  stayed  his  hun 
ger,  Moliere  had  seen  Trinette  hurrying  toward  the 
Black  Cross  Tennis-Court.  Persuaded  that  her  errand 
boded  no  good,  he  had  followed,  keeping  within  the 
shadow  of  the  house  walls.  She  had  come  high-headed, 
so  had  not  seen  him.  Swiftly  had  she  come,  for,  when 
he  tarried  beyond  the  hour  of  his  promise,  her  resent 
ment  was  fanned  to  a  white  heat.  Her  passion  once 
aroused,  pride  set  no  bounds.  Hate  was  then  a  fierce 
master,  love  a  consuming  desire. 

As  this  vehement  girl  entered  the  theatre  with  rage 
unbridled,  Moliere  dogged  her  steps,  his  footfall  barely 
audible.  When  she  threw  aside  a  curtain,  he  stepped 
behind  it.  Pale  and  trembling,  he  waited,  mystified  by 
her  coming,  amazed  at  her  temerity — waited  to  learn 
her  intent.  No  sooner  did  she  face  Madeleine  squarely 
than  jealousy — a  serpent  in  her  breast — crazed  her 
with  its  fangs. 

"  What  hast  thou  done  with  him  ?  "  she  cried  in  furious 
rage  against  the  girl  whom  she  supposed  to  have  out 
witted  her.  "  He  is  mine,  understand,  Madeleine 
Bejart,  mine!  and  if  he  has  been  hidden  or  spirited 
away  or  killed — for  I  see  it  is  all  a  plot  of  thy  blessed 
family — thou  'It  answer  to  me,  thou  rig,  thou  daughter 
of  a  rig! " 

Before  this  fury  the  actors  recoiled.  Enraged  at  the 
301 


302  FAME'S    PATHWAY 

insult  thrown  at  her,  Marie  Herve  answered  in  kind. 
Madeleine  restrained  her. 

"  Heed  her  not,  mother,"  she  said,  her  clear  blue  eyes 
alight  with  contempt.  "  Evil  passions  have  mastered 
her.  She  is  a  girl  without  shame." 

"  Thou  darest  talk  of  shame,"  flouted  Trinette,  "  thou 
whose  shame  is  publicly  inscribed.  Mordienne,  thou  'It 
not  cow  me!  He  is  mine,  my  fine  lady — his  lips  have 
kissed  mine,  his  arms  have  entwined  me,  too,  in  a  fonder 
embrace  than  ever  was  thine.  Dost  thou  fancy  I  shall 
let  him  go?  Thou  knowest  me  not,  pardi,  if  thou  dost, 
foul  thief  of  a  girl !  Shameless,  foul  thief !  " 

Moliere,  listening  to  this  ribald  diatribe,  his  eyes  blaz 
ing  beneath  serried  brows,  could  not  believe  he  heard 
aright!  This  hussy  without  womanly  modesty  the 
temptress  who  had  beguiled  him  that  very  day!  But 
if  the  shrewish  picture  she  made  with  her  swarthy  face 
on  fire,  her  black  hair  dishevelled,  was  hateful  to  him, 
Madeleine  fired  the  soul  of  him  with  shame.  In  her 
man's  doublet  and  small-clothes,  she  stood,  brave  as  any 
man.  When  she  spoke,  there  was  no  hesitation  in  her 
voice,  no  stammering  of  fear.  Hers  was  an  arrogant 
disdain,  a  contempt  that  had  in  it  her  superiority. 

"  Catherine  Desurlis,  the  way  to  the  door  lies  there." 
Her  hand  pointed  to  the  curtains.  Her  look  was  as  still 
and  cold  as  freezing  water.  It  drove  Trinette  to 
frenzy. 

"  I  '11  not  be  ushered  out  by  thee !  It  is  a  plot  against 
me!  A  nefarious  plot  thou  and  thy  vile  family  have 
hatched!" 

Marie  Herve  could  hold  her  tongue  no  longer.  "  Out 
with  the  trull !  out  with  her !  "  she  cried,  puffing  her 
cheeks  with  rage. 


THE    DEVIL'S    OWN  303 

"  Ay,  out  with  her !  "  echoed  Catherine  Bourgeois. 

Lean  Bej  art's  tusks  were  bared.  "If  ever  there  was 
a  b-b-baggage,  it  is  thou !  T-t-tonnerre  de  dieu,  I  '11 
have  thee  out  myself !  " 

He  took  a  forward  step,  rolling  up  his  sleeves  as  he 
spoke  and  doubling  his  skinny  fists.  Trinette  made 
ready  to  thwart  him.  Moving  with  the  sleekness  of  a 
cat,  she  uttered  coarse  taunts.  Around  the  stage  he 
followed  her,  seeking  a  chance  to  seize  her.  Alert  and 
lithe,  she  evaded  him,  ever  keeping  an  open  space  be 
tween  them.  The  actors,  forgetting  her  effrontery, 
laughed  heartily  at  the  stutterer's  discomfiture. 

Angered,  he  made  a  clumsy  dash  for  her.  She  dodged 
adroitly,  ran,  dodged  again,  and  while  he  passed  her, 
panting  his  rage,  she,  stepping  sidewise,  hit  a  chair. 
The  sword  he  had  picked  up  to  badger  Madeleine  fell 
to  the  floor.  With  a  cry  of  joy,  Trinette  seized  it  be 
fore  he  could  stay  her;  and  deft  as  an  arrow,  turned  to 
face  him,  the  blade  pointed  at  his  breast. 

"  Back,  thou  soul  of  mud,"  she  cried  in  exultation ; 
"  back,  or  I  '11  kill  thee !  " 

Before  the  gleaming  steel  Bej  art  recoiled.  The 
women  screamed  their  terror;  Rabel  and  Clerin  rushed 
upon  the  mad  girl  to  wrench  the  rapier  from  her  grasp, 
but  she,  not  to  be  taken  unawares,  wheeled  toward  them, 
her  rapier  at  guard,  her  slender  foot  in  line  with  knee 
and  shoulder. 

"  Come  on,  you  poltroons,  and  be  spitted  for  hell's 
roasting !  "  she  cried,  backing  toward  the  curtain  behind 
which  Moliere  stood,  her  intent  being  to  guard  against 
an  attack  in  flank  or  rear. 

Bej  art  and  his  fellow-players  stood  cowed  by  her 
weapon.  Seeing  them  at  bay,  the  maddened  little 


304  FAME'S   PATHWAY 

creature  turned  upon  Madeleine,  standing  as  she  had 
stood,  with  Armande  Bej  art's  hand  in  hers — a  proud, 
undaunted  girl  whose  beauty  was  enhanced  by  the  con 
tempt  in  her  lustrous  eyes. 

"  A  man's  sword  hangs  at  thy  side/'  Trinette  sneered. 
"  Draw  it  and  be  a  man,  for  I  '11  not  spare  thee  as  I  have 
these  milksops — no  whimpering  baby  shall  shield  thee, 
I  swear !  I  give  thee  the  chance  of  a  fair  fight  though, 
and  may  the  best  man  win ! " 

"  It  is  not  a  fair  fight,"  said  Madeleine  calmly,  "  for 
I  have  not  your  skill." 

"  A  fair  fight,"  cried  Trinette,  "  for  I  '11  fight  thee 
and  thy  comrades  too!  Let  the  first  come  to  thy  aid 
who  dares ! " 

Unloosing  Armande  Bej  art's  hand,  Madeleine, 
goaded  by  the  girl's  venom,  seized  her  sword  hilt.  Her 
enemy,  grinning  as  a  panther  grins,  with  a  lip  curled 
back  to  show  the  teeth  beneath  it,  voiced  defiance :  "  On 
guard !  for,  by  the  devil's  horns,  I  mean  to  kill  thee !  " 

Calmly  Madeleine  drew  her  rapier  from  its  sheath, 
her  eyes  pale  as  the  blade  of  it.  Bravely  she  faced  her 
enemy,  for  cowardice  she  could  not  abide,  and  seeing 
the  men  about  her  with  faces  blanched,  her  heart  beat 
courageously.  She  was  no  fighter,  but  the  fight  was 
hers:  none  should  say  she  shirked  it. 

Murderous  hate  shot  from  Trinette's  eyes.  The  point 
of  her  rapier  rose,  the  hilt  was  lowered;  but  while  her 
arm  curled  upward,  Moliere,  stepping  from  behind  the 
curtain,  seized  her.  She  fought  to  free  herself,  but  he 
wrenched  the  sword  from  her  grasp  and  hurled  it  beyond 
her  reach  into  the  empty  pit. 

He  had  stood  a  dazed  witness  of  this  unseemly  brawl, 
yet  seeing  not  how  he  could  justify  himself  in  Made- 


Moliere  stepping   from   behind  the    curtain,  seized  her 


THE    DEVIL'S    OWN  305 

leine's  or  any  honest  eyes.  When  her  sword  flashed  from 
its  scabbard,  red  blood  quickened  in  his  veins.  He 
could  not  be  so  despicable,  he  vowed,  as  to  let  women 
fight  for  him,  so  mean  as  not  to  stay  a  quarrel  caused 
by  his  unworthy  act.  Trinette,  adroit  and  graceful  in 
an  attitude  of  fence,  Madeleine  in  brave  awkwardness 
before  her!  The  sight  stirred  him  to  manhood.  When 
Trinette's  sword  clanged  harmless  upon  the  floor,  he 
turned  to  her. 

"  Stay  your  anger,  Trinette.  I  alone  am  to  blame.  I 
should  have  come  at  the  hour  I  promised." 

She  stood  clasping  the  wrist  he  had  hurt  in  wrenching 
the  sword  from  her  grasp.  "  This  quarrel  is  mine ! " 
she  cried,  her  quick-rising  breast  straining  for  breath. 
"  Out  of  my  way !  " 

Quietly  he  stepped  before  her.  "  Madeleine  has  not 
liarmed  you.  Vent  your  anger  on  me !  " 

The  girl  answered  him  with  derision.  "  Thou  in  the 
liero's  role!  A  cullion  well  cast,  since  women  and  base 
cowards  aid  thee!  A  cullion  did  I  say?  A  gull  I 
mean — the  gull  of  yonder  jade!" 

Like  her  comrades,  Madeleine  had  stood  transfixed 
with  amazement  at  Moliere's  unforeseen  appearance  and 
the  disarming  of  Trinette;  but  when  the  girl's  hate 
emitted  this  new  affront,  she  lifted  her  head  proudly. 
Her  eyes  sought  Moliere's  and  remained  steadily  on 
them.  "Is  it  just  that  I  should  bear  these  insults? 
Have  I  done  aught  to  merit  them  ?  " 

"  No,  Madeleine,  it  is  not  just,"  he  said. 

Trinette  answered  him,  her  beauty  fierce  and  mock 
ing.  "If  you  take  her  part,  you  recreant " 

"  I  speak  the  truth,  Trinette,"  he  said,  cutting  short 
her  words.  Turning  to  the  actors,  he  addressed  them: 


306  FAME'S    PATHWAY 

"  The  quarrel  you  have  witnessed  is  of  my  making. 
The  fault  is  not  Trinette's,  for  I  plighted  my  faith  with 
her  and  did  not  keep  it.  It  is  not  Madeleine's,  for  she 
has  behaved  nobly.  Mine  only  is  the  fault." 

Trinette's  glance  grew  fiercer  and  blacker.  "  A 
pretty  vindication !  And  what  of  me  ?  Tell  her  I  spoke 
truly  when  I  vowed  that  your  arms  have  held  me  in  a 
fonder  embrace  than  ever  was  hers !  Tell  her  you  know 
her  shame  and  despise  her  for  it !  " 

He  could  not  gainsay  her,  for  he  had  done  all  she 
averred !  But  to  make  this  mean  charge !  To  denounce 
before  her  comrades  one  who  had  borne  herself  so  finely, 
one  whose  love  for  him  had  been  far  truer,  he  began  to 
fear,  than  his  deserts ;  nay,  that  he  could  not  do !  "I  '11 
keep  my  word  to  you,  Trinette,"  he  said,  "  but  not  one 
syllable  to  j  ustif y  myself  will  I  utter." 

But  this  partial  victory  was  not  to  her  taste.  He  must 
be  all  or  nothing — an  idol  for  her  wantonness,  or  the 
dirt  of  the  street.  "  So  you'll  keep  faith  with  me  and 
champion  her  betimes,  you  white-livered  dupe !  "  she 
cried  with  stamping  foot.  "  Mordienne,  I  '11  none  of 
you!" 

Moliere  tried  to  speak,  but  the  actors  closed  about 
Trinette  to  howl  their  rage. 

"  S-s-sang  dious!"  shouted  Bejart,  "no  more  of  thy 
filth." 

Marie  Herve  shrilled  again.  "  Out  with  the  skit !  out 
with  her !  " 

Fists  began  to  double,  angry  eyes  to  glare,  till  Mo 
liere  raised  a  restraining  voice :  "  Nay,  comrades,  no 
more  baiting  of  Trinette!  The  fault  is  mine,  I  say." 

"  Since  she  is  thine,  take  her  away !  "  rang  a  clear 
note — the  voice  of  Catherine  Bourgeois. 


THE    DEVIL'S    OWN  307 

Trinette  hissed  in  reply:  "His?  He  belongs  to 
yonder  light-o'-love!  Gladly  will  she  have  him  back, 
even  though  I  have  cast  him  off ! " 

Madeleine's  red-gold  hair  shone  in  the  flame  of  her 
burning  cheeks,  but  she  said  not  a  word.  Her  mother, 
seeing  her  silent,  turned  upon  her.  "  Thou  standest 
there  like  a  coward.  No  daughter  of  mine  art  thou! 
Answer  her,  I  say ;  confound  those  lies  of  hers ! " 

Madeleine's  blue  eyes  did  not  falter.  "Nay,  mother," 
she  said  quite  calmly.  "  I  '11  not  so  foul  my  tongue." 

Trinette  had  no  such  reticence.  Her  scorn  broke  like 
a  white  squall.  "  Foul  her  tongue  forsooth !  She  has 
no  answer :  she  knows  I  speak  the  truth ! " 

Marie  Herve's  child  stood  clinging  to  her,  having  gone 
to  her  when  Madeleine  drew  her  rapier.  "  Drat  such 
cowardice !  "  the  shrew  said,  wrenching  Armande's  hand 
from  the  skirt  it  held  and  shoving  her  toward  Madeleine, 
"  Take  the  child,  give  me  thy  weapon !  " 

With  her  insolent  eyes  half-closed,  Trinette  watched 
this  scene,  her  little  head  thrown  back,  her  bosom  heav 
ing  defiance.  Seeing  the  child  standing  perplexed  be 
tween  her  mother  and  her  sister,  a  hateful  thought 
flashed  through  her  evil  mind,  "  Yes,  go  to  thy  mother," 
she  laughed,  pointing  to  Madeleine. 

Seeing  a  pair  of  wicked  eyes  fixed  upon  her,  little 
Armande  Bejart  fled  to  Madeleine's  side  to  hide  her 
frightened  face  and  cry. 

"  Look,  Moliere ! "  cried  Trinette  in  an  ecstasy, 
"  a  picture  for  your  eyes — Madeleine  and  her  love- 
child  ! " 

For  a  moment  the  only  sound  in  the  theatre  was  the 
child's  sobbing.  Moliere  was  too  scandalised  to  speak. 
He  and  the  onlookers  stood  pitying  Madeleine,  yet 


308  FAME'S    PATHWAY 

stunned  to  silence.  She,  raising  a  proud  face  to  a  malig 
nant  one,  met  her  traducer's  scorn  with  honest  eyes. 
"  If  ever  there  was  a  calumny,"  she  said,  "  you  have 
uttered  it!" 

Trinette's  voice  had  in  it  a  cry  of  derision.  "A 
calumny?  Pouf!  The  evidence  is  inscribed  in  the 
Church  of  St.  Eustache!  The  child's  name  is  changed. 
Simple  matter  indeed.  A  mother  past  the  fruitful  age 
then  mothers  her  to  save  a  daughter's  repute.  A  likely 
tale,  pardi !  All  Paris  will  believe  it !  " 

Madeleine's  eyes  searched  Moliere's  for  a  ray  of  pity, 
but  their  appeal  was  needless.  This  tainting  of  the 
living  with  the  shame  of  the  dead !  Was  ever  a  greater 
cruelty  conceived,  his  offended  heart  cried  out.  He 
had  been  this  woman's  dupe,  had  loved  her  for  one  wild 
hour;  but  her  infamous  words  turned  what  passion  he 
had  borne  her  to  relentless  hate.  To  make  the  only 
amende  possible  was  clearly  his  duty;  yet  what  a  pitiful 
amende  it  seemed  after  the  mean  part  he  had  played! 
In  truth,  what  hope  had  he  for  Madeleine's  forgiveness? 
There  was  none,  could  be  none,  yet  speak  he  must. 
"  Catherine  Desurlis,"  he  said,  his  voice  quivering,  "  for 
that  lie  there  is  no  excuse!  You  are  a  woman  without 
a  heart.  I  break  my  troth " 

But  his  words  were  drowned  in  a  tumult  of  anger. 
The  girl's  infamy  had  dawned  at  last  upon  Marie  Herve, 
Joseph  Bejart,  and  his  sister  Genevieve — on  Clerin  and 
Rabel  too,  each  with  a  man's  bone  to  pick.  In  a  tor 
rent  of  rage,  they  charged  the  girl,  sweeping  Moliere 
aside.  To  be  the  first  to  clutch  her,  they  fought  each 
other,  while  she  struck  out  at  them  to  fend  them  off. 
Their  fury  spurring  them  on,  they  struggled,  cursed, 


THE   DEVIL'S   OWN  309 

and  howled — for  all  the  world  like  a  pack  of  terriers  at 
a  cat.  While  they  battled,  Marie  Herve  screamed 
ribaldry. 

Madeleine  begged  mercy.  Moliere,  too,  was  averse 
to  this  ruffian's  game;  and  helped  by  Catherine  Bour 
geois,  he  dragged  the  women  off,  then  pommelled  the 
men  and  cried  shame  to  them. 

When  Trinette  emerged  from  the  broil,  her  skirt  still 
clung  to  her,  but  it  was  sadly  rent,  and  the  sleeves  had 
been  torn  from  the  wrists  Rabel  and  Clerin  held  pinioned. 

"Thou  hell-wench!"  said  Bejart,  shaking  his  thin 
fist  in  her  face. 

"  Enough,  brother,  enough !  "  protested  Madeleine, 
"  Remember  your  manhood !  " 

The  girl,  straining  at  the  arms  that  held  her,  testified 
her  insatiable  hate.  "  I  want  not  thy  help !  "  she  said, 
her  eyes  burning  like  pits. 

Madeleine,  erect  and  cold,  stood  frozen  to  silence. 

"If  ever  thou  d-d-darest  to  set  foot  in  this  theatre ! " 
said  Bejart,  his  thin  face  livid. 

"  Or  to  give  voice  again  to  that  scandalous  lie ! " 
cried  Moliere,  still  trembling  with  abhorrence. 

It  would  be  idle  to  say  that  Trinette  was  pleased  with 
the  course  of  these  events.  She  had  come  to  bear  Mo 
liere  away — a  spoil  for  her  triumph — for  never  had  she 
loved  him  save  as  a  wanton.  Before  her  defeat  she  had 
stood  possessed  with  a  rage  that  dulled,  for  the  time 
being,  her  wits,  but  suddenly  the  affair  had  shaped  itself 
in  a  way  that  gave  her  the  chance  she  sought  and  she 
had  seized  it  with  avidity.  If  ever  a  flouted  girl  had 
excuse  for  a  mean  revenge  she  felt  certain  it  was  she. 
It  had  been  sweet;  for  she  had  seen  Madeleine  raise 


310  FAME'S   PATHWAY 

a  pale,  twitching  face  and  Moliere  shiver.  To  bring 
contempt  upon  him  who  had  dragged  her  into  contempt, 
she,  when  he  faced  her,  answered  him  with  contumely. 

"  What  care  I  for  either  the  threats  or  the  kisses  of 
an  actor  all  Paris  hisses,  a  skulking  debtor  sought  by 
the  police? "  Turning  her  contemptuous  glance  to 
Madeleine,  she  continued:  "  To  that  lady  I  toss  you 
back,  sop  that  you  are!  The  calumny,  as  she  calls  it, 
I  '11  spread  far  and  wide,  for  I  aver  it  to  be  the  truth. 
Moreover,  it  will  be  believed,  since  I,  being  of  the 
Marais  theatre,  have  more  credit  in  the  town  than  this 
entire  company.  Adieu,  my  friends,  adieu." 

Rabel  and  Clerin  still  held  her,  but  with  a  quick, 
downward  jerk  of  her  wrists  against  their  thumbs — a 
trick  taught  her  by  the  fencer  she  had  loved — she 
wrenched  herself  free  and  darted  between  the  curtains, 
her  laugh  echoing  through  the  still  theatre,  and  dying  in 
the  street  outside. 

Rabel  and  Clerin  eyed  their  comrades  sheepishly. 

"The  d-d-devil  protects  his  own,"  said  Joseph 
Be  j  art. 


CHAPTER  X 

IN   THE    KING'S    NAME 

"  THOUGH  Trinette  is  a  baggage/'  thought  Rabel  and 
Clerin,  "morbleu!  she  is  adroit."  Clearly  she  had  out 
witted  them  and  outvenomed  Marie  Herve,  so  their  ad 
miration,  though  reluctantly  given,  was  none  the  less 
keen;  yet  they,  be  it  remembered,  had  been  mere  on 
lookers  interfering  in  an  unseemly  brawl.  No  love  of 
theirs  had  been  flouted,  no  child  of  their  blood  defamed, 
nor  had  they  been  made  cruelly  conscious  of  their  own 
unworthiness. 

Of  those  deeply  concerned,  Marie  Herve  displayed 
the  most  malevolence.  After  imprecating  Moliere  and 
finding  that  he  gave  no  answer,  she  took  to  berating 
Rabel  and  Clerin  for  letting  a  hussy  escape  a  just 
vengeance.  They  shrugged  their  shoulders  and  laughed. 
Meantime,  Joseph  Bejart  made  off  hand  in  hand  with 
his  sister  Genevieve,  his  design  being  to  let  the  affair 
simmer  before  attempting  to  cool  it. 

"  W-w-we,  of  all  the  family,  are  the  1-1-least  con 
cerned,"  whispered  the  stutterer  as  they  went.  "  Pru 
dence  bids  us  be  off." 

Striving  to  quell  the  distress  in  her  heart,  Madeleine 
vowed  that  she  would  bear  in  silence  the  scandal  so 
vilely  thrust  upon  her,  for  she  felt  that  to  give  the  lie 
to  it  would  only  give  it  tongue.  Her  eyes  brimming, 
she  raised  the  chair  Trinette  had  overturned  and  sat 
down,  hiding  her  quivering  face  in  her  hands.  She  had 

311 


FAME'S   PATHWAY 

shown  a  proud  front  to  her  enemy,  but  when  Moliere 
proved  himself  incapable  of  sanctioning  that  enemy's 
baseness,  she  had  found  it  hard  to  restrain  her  joy. 

His  shoulders  bent  as  with  age,  his  chin  on  his  breast, 
old  under  the  weight  of  his  remorse,  Moliere  paced  the 
stage.  The  crisis  to  which  his  conduct  had  brought 
him  dazed  him  and  turned  him  cold.  He  dared  not  look 
at  Madeleine — dared  not  meet  the  censure  of  her  eyes. 
Confronted  suddenly  with  Catherine  Bourgeois's  glance, 
he  winced,  for  snatches  of  this  girl's  words  rang  in  his 
ears :  "  It  was  your  safety  she  sought,  not  hers. 
...  Go  to  the  drab  who  has  bewitched  you,  if 
you  will;  but  you  do  not  go  unknowing  this." 

"Thank  God,  I  did  not  go!"  he  thought,  "but  I 
spoke  unforgivable  words  to  Madeleine." 

He  bowed  his  head  again  and  walked  on,  slowly, 
feebly,  back  and  forth.  He  felt  his  heart  beating,  but 
could  not  think  coherently,  save  that  a  vile  creature  had 
sought  to  ensnare  him,  and  failing,  had  revenged  herself 
in  a  way  too  contemptible  for  credence. 

"  Yet  that  scandalous  lie  is  unbelievable,"  he  thought, 
when  little  Armande  came  toddling  toward  him,  a  child 
of  scarcely  three ;  for  that  hateful  entry,  he  remembered, 
had  been  upon  the  parish  register  of  St.  Eustache  full 
seven  years.  His  heart  leaped  with  joy  at  the  thought 
that  Madeleine's  word  needed  no  vindication.  And  had 
she  not  long  since  paid  the  penalty  of  a  girl's  implicit 
trust?  he  asked  himself;  and  was  he  not  damnable  in 
bearing  her  malice  when  the  patient  love  she  gave  him 
was  the  tenderness  of  one  who  had  learned  life  through, 
its  sufferings,  even  as  he  was  now  learning  it? 

So  reasoned  he  as  Armande  Bejart  came  toward  him. 
"  Little  sweetheart ! "  he  cried,  snatching  her  fondly  in 


IN   THE    KING'S    NAME  313 

his  arms.  "  If  my  devotion  can  undo  this  day's  infamy, 
ah,  then  it  is  undone !  " 

The  child,  finding  him  dull,  turned  her  little  eyes  on 
him  in  scorn.  "  Mo-mo  not  brave,"  she  said.  "  He 
no  kill  naughty  woman." 

"  No,"  he  answered,  "  I  did  not  kill  her  even  though 
I  fain  would,  for  the  wrong  she  did  you." 

His  heart  despaired,  but  the  sight  of  this  child  filled 
it  with  a  sudden  yearning.  Innocence  seemed  to  him 
the  only  happiness.  If  he  could  but  shield  this  little 
Armande  Bejart  from  the  world's  pitfalls,  it  might  be 
hers.  It  was  a  visionary  dream,  but  in  that  moment  of 
wretchedness,  it  was  consoling. 

The  child,  wearied  by  his  gravity,  struggled  to  free 
herself  from  his  embrace.  "  Let  Armande  go ! "  she 
cried.  "  Armande  no  like  Mo-mo  when  he  no  play 
with  her." 

With  a  sigh,  he  placed  her  upon  the  floor.  Then, 
with  tender  bitterness,  he  said :  "  Go,  little  traitress, 
go !  I  give  you  back  your  affection ;  and  seeing  me  thus 
kind,  pray  love  me  in  revenge." 

Marie  Herve,  having  screamed  her  voice  hoarse, 
turned  just  then  and  saw  him.  With  a  cry  of  anger, 
she  ran  toward  him,  possessed  with  an  imperious  rage. 
"  You  wretch !  "  she  vociferated,  "  how  dare  you  hold 
converse  with  my  child  ?  " 

Moliere  bent  to  the  shrilling  storm.  Before  the 
shrew  could  mouth  more  insult,  Madeleine  said  firmly: 
"  Enough,  mother,  enough !  Take  Armande  away,  I 
pray;  but  do  it  without  vehemence  lest  it  give  colour  to 
Trinette's  words." 

Being  only  a  vapourer,  Marie  Herve  contented  her 
self  with  a  few  caustic  words  about  a  daughter  bereft 


3141  FAME'S   PATHWAY 

of  pride  and  shame.  Gathering  her  child  into  her  arms, 
she  swept  from  the  theatre,  the  screams  of  the  unwilling 
Armande  being  audible  long  after  the  door  to  the  street 
had  been  slammed. 

Rabel  and  Clerin  shrugged  once  more.  They  would 
have  laughed  too,  and  appended  coarse  jests  to  their 
cachinnation,  had  not  Catherine  Bourgeois  whispered 
them  to  be  off,  and  gone  hand  in  hand  with  them,  having 
divined  that  the  moment  was  an  auspicious  one  for 
Madeleine  and  Moliere  to  be  left  together. 

Moliere  stood  silent  on  the  stage  where  his  heart  had 
been  chilled  by  hisses,  where,  within  the  hour,  his  folly 
had  led  to  the  undoing  of  the  little  happiness  that  had 
remained  to  him.  "  Surely  proud  Madeleine  will  not 
forgive  the  cruel  words  that  have  been  spoken  here," 
sighed  he  to  himself,  when  they  were  alone. 

"  I  ought  to  feel  more  deeply  the  taint  of  his  con 
duct,"  thought  she,  "  to  despise  him  for  his  unbelief  in 
me,  to  see  him  no  more."  Yet  her  heart  beat  tremulously 
with  words  that  said :  "  I  cannot  blame  him  for  ever. 
Ah,  let  him  ask  forgiveness;  let  him  ask  it  soon,  so  only 
he  ask  it." 

But  these  thoughts  struck  a  sudden  terror  into  her, 
for  they  revealed  her  weakness.  His  love  was  her  hap 
piness,  she  knew,  yet  love  requires  trust  to  be  love,  and 
he,  as  she  was  very  well  aware,  had  given  her  full 
cause  for  doubt.  In  that  moment  when  they  were  alone 
in  the  empty  theatre,  shadowy  in  the  dusk  of  dying  day, 
she  prayed  for  the  strength  to  deny  him,  her  pride 
rising  cold  and  stern  to  stay  the  acquittal  a  fond  heart 
longed  to  give. 

He  stood  before  her,  pleading  with  his  eyes,  his  lips 
afraid  to  speak.  He  was  thinking  of  an  island  dense  with 


IN    THE    KING'S    NAME  315 

beauty  and  the  breath  of  flowers,  thinking  of  the  vows 
he  had  whispered  while  the  winds  sighed  and  the  waters 
laughed.  Now,  in  all  humility,  he  realised  how  far 
afield  his  love  had  wandered.  A  contemptible  suppliant 
he,  with  no  right  to  the  pardon  he  craved  yet  feared  to 
ask. 

She  was  thinking,  too,  of  the  temple  they  had  built 
upon  a  captivating  shore — a  white  temple  stained  by  the 
storms  of  two  distressing  years.  But  she  did  not  falter 
in  what  appeared  her  duty  when  he  knelt  before  her 
and  said  with  quivering  lips,  "  Madeleine  dear,  no  re 
morse  of  mine  can  make  me  worthy  of  your  pardon,  yet 
I  ask  it — because  I  realise  the  wrong  I  have  done  you." 

"  The  realisation  of  a  wrong  is  not  its  undoing,"  she 
said,  a  great  restraint  keeping  her  voice  cold. 

He  made  a  despairing  gesture.  "  True,  true,"  he 
answered  in  a  piteous  tone ;  "  yet  say  that  I  may  prove 
myself  sincere,  say  that  you  forgive !  " 

Her  heart  was  beating  fondly,  her  eyes  were  longing 
to  respond  to  his,  though  she  found  a  way  to  command 
the  forces  of  her  love.  "  I  shall  forgive  you,"  she  re 
plied,  "  when  you  have  shown  me  that  I  may  forgive." 

He  seized  her  hand  and  kissed  it.  "  Ah,  Madeleine, 
my  only  hope  is  you,  for  success  has  passed  me 
by." 

She  had  taken  the  measure  of  his  love.  Art  was  her 
rival,  not  Trinette ;  yet  when  a  loving  woman  ventures  to 
be  proud  it  is  against  the  yearnings  of  her  heart,  so 
she  began  to  pity  and  to  be  the  mother  of  her  lad. 
"Shame  on  you!  "  she  said.  "  Rise  up,  be  a  man;  for 
success  comes  from  never  despairing  and  always  striv 
ing.  You  have  a  rare  talent.  Make  the  world  laugh 
and  success  will  no  longer  pass  yon  by." 


316  FAME'S   PATHWAY 

Her  words  had  stung  his  pride  too,  but  they  had  not 
made  him  forget  the  mean  part  he  had  played.  "  Hence 
forth  you  have  the  right  to  be  as  cruel  as  you  will. 
I  will  wear  a  comic  mask,  if  it  makes  you  more 
merciful." 

She  saw  that  a  better  understanding  of  himself  had 
come  upon  him,  but  the  spirit  of  endeavour,  made 
drowsy  by  disdain,  still  slept — his  heart  was  still  per 
verse  in  its  folly.  "  Lean  not  on  me,  Moliere,"  she  said, 
"but  on  yourself." 

Feelings  that  were  his  fondest  self  surged  up,  and 
they  made  him  plead,  not  for  his  art,  but  for  her — plead 
in  a  despairing  voice,  "  Your  love,  your  forgiveness,  do 
you  deny  me  these  ?  " 

She  longed  to  raise  his  bowed  head  and  clasp  him  in 
her  arms,  yet  dared  not,  for  she  knew  that  she  must 
withhold  him  for  his  heart's  ease  and  her  own.  "  Ah, 
my  friend,  wait  before  you  ask  my  love  again.  If  this 
day  has  been  a  bitter  lesson  to  you,  think  what  it  has 
been  to  me !  " 

He  felt  her  doubt  of  him  and  divined  her  pride.  He 
felt  his  own  unworthiness  too,  yet  knew  her  to  be  so 
gentle,  so  full  of  mercy,  and  so  just  that  despair  of  her 
loss  seized  him;  while,  in  her,  the  wish  to  see  him 
chastened  for  his  own  good  became  as  intense,  almost, 
as  her  love.  He  wanted  her,  yet  wanted,  too,  the  appre 
ciation  that  had  been  denied  him;  she  wanted  nothing 
in  the  world  but  him.  He,  most  wretched  of  men — for 
so  he  believed  himself — was  the  slave  of  his  own 
despair;  she,  having  suffered  most,  was  proud  and 
free. 

If  heart  could  speak  to  heart  without  medium  of 
words,  his  would  have  said:  "Ah,  Madeleine,  indeed  I 


IN   THE    KING'S   NAME  317 

have  been  a  wretched  offender  against  our  love,  and 
you,  more  kind  than  my  deserts,  are  just  in  withholding 
your  forgiveness — for  how  can  you  know,  dear  one, 
that  I  have  loved  you  more  within  this  hour  than  in  all 
the  trying  days  we  have  passed  together?  "  Hers,  a 
very  proud  heart,  would  have  answered :  "  You,  too,  I 
love;  yet  to  me  you  are  no  enigma.  Having  lost  me,  I 
seem  to  you  a  need,  for  you  know  me  to  be  helpful  and 
long  most  ardently  to  call  me  yours;  yet  love  for  me  is 
not  the  only  love  that  stirs  within  you.  This  traffic  with 
Trinette  I  understand,  for  you  were  only  the  jealous 
instrument  on  which  she  played  her  tune  of  wanton 
ness.  Yet  swear  to  me  that,  were  it  now  a  choice  be 
tween  the  world's  approval  and  mine  own,  you  would 
choose  mine  freely;  and  swear,  too,  that  there  lurks  not 
still  within  your  troubled  breast  a  faith  that  some  day 
you  will  find  a  love  untarnished  by  a  past  like  mine ;  for, 
Moliere,  I  have  read  you  like  an  open  book.  If  I  love 
you  deeply,  it  is  because  I  am  a  fond  woman.  Yet, 
though  I  love  you,  it  will  never  be  blindly,  for  I  know 
both  your  weakness  and  your  strength.  Rise  up,  as  I 
have  bidden  you,  and  strive  to  prove  me  right  in  holding 
you  to  be  a  gifted  man !  Then  will  I  be  content  to  fol 
low  where  you  lead  and  play  the  helpmate  even  though 
my  heart  be  one  day  broken  by  neglect — for  you  I  love, 
you  and  the  master-spirit  I  have  seen  shining  in  your 
divine  eyes ! " 

Perhaps  he  understood  something  of  this,  for,  while 
she  gazed  proudly  upon  him,  his  heart  throve  upon  its 
own  despair.  Feeling  it  had  suffered  all  it  should  in 
conscience  suffer,  it  felt  its  meanness  too,  and  from  its 
depths  there  came  the  echo  of  her  words :  "  Shame 
on  you,  Moliere !  Rise  up ;  be  a  man ;  for  success  comes 


518  FAME'S   PATHWAY 

from  never  despairing  and  always  striving."  They  shed 
a  balm  on  his  wounded  spirit  and  gave  him  some  measure 
of  peace,  so  to  become  his  watchword;  for,  when  he 
heard  rough  steps  before  the  outer  door,  he  vowed  that, 
harsh  as  his  fate  might  be,  it  should  not  find  him  wanting 
in  courage,  nor  giving  to  Madeleine  another  cause  for 
shame. 

She,  too,  heard  the  steps  and  paled.  When  the  door 
opened  and  closed  and  they  came  nearer  in  the  dusk, 
she  seized  his  hand  tremulously,  forgetting  her  disdain 
of  him.  Pressing  it  fondly,  she  whispered,  "  They 
have  come,  dear.  Be  brave." 

He  knew  the  meaning  of  those  clanking  steps,  but 
her  words  had  tempered  his  terror  with  joy.  "  Fear 
not  for  me,"  he  said.  "Long  have  I  expected  them. 
They  shall  find  me  ready." 

He  saw  leering  Fausser,  the  chandler,  and  sham 
bling  Dubourg — saw  the  scoundrelly  bailiff  they  had 
brought,  and  the  archers  of  police.  No  more  should  he 
skulk  through  the  streets  in  terror  of  each  shadow  lest 
it  be  the  law's — for  they  had  come  at  last,  those  fell 
officers  he  had  so  long  evaded — come  at  a  propitious 
moment;  for  had  not  their  coming  made  Madeleine 
merciful?  He  prayed  that  the  duress  might  be  the 
atonement  she  sought,  for  the  pressure  of  her  hand  had 
filled  his  abject  heart  with  hope.  Let  them  imprison 
him!  His  crime  had  been  to  strive  for  glorious  ideals 
their  dull  minds  could  not  compass.  Ay,  let  them  do  it, 
so  that  he  might  bear  himself  courageously  and  Made 
leine  forgive!  Thus  the  confidence  of  youth,  that  had 
been  so  sorely  harassed,  arose  in  his  heart  once  more, 
and  seeing  glory  in  its  martyrdom,  glowed  valiantly. 

When  he  stood  before  them,  his  head  high  and  his 


IN   THE    KING'S    NAME  319 

arms  folded  scornfully,  the  chandler  and  the  draper 
blinked  rage  at  him. 

"  Thou  slippery  knave ! "  said  the  one,  "  we  have 
searched  through  every  dark  hole  of  Paris,  and  here 
wert  thou  calmly  hiding  in  thy  play-house  where  all  the 
world  might  come  an  it  would,  and  we  least  likely  to 
look  for  thee.  A  clever  knave,  I  trow !  " 

"Ay,"  broke  in  the  other;  "  had  it  not  been  for  a  jade 
we  met,  we  might  have  been  searching  for  thee  still — a 
tawny  jade  who  bears  thee  no  good  will,  I  swear;  for, 
seeing  us,  she  ran  to  tell  us  where  thou  wert  concealed 
and  urged  us  to  make  haste." 

His  blear  eyes  twitching  malevolently,  Fausser  cut 
short  his  companion's  words.  "  There  is  thy  fellow, 
arrest  him !  "  he  called  to  the  officer,  who  stood  with  a 
warrant  crumpled  in  his  podgy  hand. 

The  man,  used  to  such  business,  made  a  short  shrift 
of  it.  Seizing  Moliere's  sleeve,  he  said  in  a  voice  that 
twanged  through  the  still  tennis-court  like  a  wheezy 
fiddle,  "Jean-Baptiste  Poquelin,  ycleped  Moliere,  in  the 
king's  name,  I  arrest  you." 


CHAPTER  XI 

THE   AWAKENING 

WHEN  the  doors  of  the  Grand  Chatelet  closed  upon  him 
and  he  was  thrust  into  the  prison-yard,  the  fortitude 
that  had  sustained  Moliere  until  that  moment  was 
undone  by  the  sights  that  cowed  his  trembling  eyes. 
Alas!  in  that  noisome  place  he  must  live,  comfortless  as 
the  prisoners  who  fellowed  him  with  hoots  and  jeers — 
hundreds  of  wretches  like  himself,  hounded  thither  by 
creditors;  criminals,  too,  awaiting  the  gibbet  or  the 
galleys.  Their  glassy  eyes  staring  at  him  in  the  dusk, 
their  hair  grown  long,  their  faces  blotched,  their  cloth 
ing  rotting  on  their  flesh,  they  swarmed  round  him  to 
curse  and  scoff  and  drag  the  very  coat  from  his  back 
that  it  might  be  sold  to  the  turnkeys  for  a  measure  of 
cheer. 

This  was  the  greeting  that  awaited  him,  this  the  place 
to  which  he  had  been  brought  in  expiation  of  his  folly. 
His  fellow-prisoners,  groping  in  the  prison  compound, 
open  only  to  the  starlit  sky,  wailed  like  the  damned, 
as  night  fell  mournfully.  These  lines  of  Clement 
Marot,  inspired  by  that  very  gaol,  the  Chatelet,  haunted 
him  with  their  sinister  truth: 

"  I'm  sure  there  is  on  earth  no  place  to  dwell 
So  like  to  a  foul  hell.     I  said  a  hell; 
A  hell  well  may  I  say;  for  if  this  curse 
To  see  you'd  go,  you'd  find  it  to  be  worse." 

Indeed,  far  worse  than  any  hell,  thought  he,  was  that 

320 


THE    AWAKENING  321 

inferno  with  its  stenches  and  vermin — its  reeking 
humanity. 

When  he  sank  at  last  upon  the  dank  straw  that  was 
his  bed,  it  was  to  lie  distraught  amid  a  horde  of  groan 
ing  men  herded  together  like  unwashed  sheep.  In  vain 
he  courted  sleep,  for  the  events  of  a  day  that  had  been 
the  most  woful  of  his  life  had  left  him  with  trembling 
nerves  and  strength  exhausted. 

It  was  only  a  few  hours  since  he  had  stood  beside 
Trinette  in  the  sacristy  of  St.  Eustache — since  he  had 
gone  to  the  river  bank!  To  him  it  seemed  a  lifetime; 
while  the  thought  of  that  swift-flowing  river  made  him 
shudder  with  regret,  for  had  he  ended  his  wretched  life 
when  the  temptation  was  upon  him,  then  had  this  suf 
fering  been  spared  him.  For  hours  he  tossed;  and, 
tossing,  his  misery  grew  more  keen.  It  was  physical 
misery  now,  with  aches  in  his  weary  body  and  pains  in 
his  burning  head — the  misery  of  sleeplessness  when 
sleep  is  the  only  anodyne  for  a  tortured  soul.  When  at 
last  he  slept,  it  was  a  fitful  sleep ;  and  when  he  awoke  to 
daylight,  he  was  not  conscious  of  having  slept,  so  like 
were  his  disturbing  dreams  to  the  distorted  thoughts 
that  had  filled  his  weary  mind. 

The  day  broke  more  piteous  than  the  night.  A  mid 
summer  sun,  beating  upon  the  crowded  yard,  forced  the 
wretched  creatures  there  to  fight  for  the  shade  of  the 
walls;  only  to  fight  again  like  hungry  beasts  for  the 
bread  of  charity.  Had  not  Pere  Vincent  de  Paul, 
worthiest  of  saints,  begged  food  for  them,  even  crusts 
would  have  been  denied  these  starving  unfortunates. 

The  meanest  thief  might  eat  the  "king's  bread"; 
but,  unless  the  creditors  who  had  imprisoned  him  paid 
for  his  keep,  Moliere,  the  penniless  debtor,  had  a  right 


322  FAME'S   PATHWAY 

only  to  water  at  the  discretion  of  his  gaolers.  That 
Dubourg  and  Fausser  were  ruthless,  he  learned  when  he 
asked  for  food.  No  charity  of  theirs  would  succour 
him. 

The  sun  beat  mercilessly  upon  him;  his  eyes  grew 
callous  to  the  horrors  of  his  gaol,  his  nostrils  to  its 
stenches,  his  ears  to  the  lewd  jests  of  his  mates.  He, 
too,  cursed  his  fate,  and  finally,  his  anguish  became  a 
mere  craving  for  food — even  the  wish  for  freedom  grow 
ing  paltry  beside  it.  Wretched  he  had  been  before  his 
imprisonment,  so  wretched  that  he  had  meditated  death; 
yet  there  is  no  misery  like  hunger,  he  learned,  no 
abasement  too  low  for  it  to  compass.  His  starving  fel 
lows,  fighting  for  the  crumbs  of  charity,  were  kept  from 
rending  one  another  by  the  staves  of  the  gaolers.  How 
long  would  pride  sustain  him,  he  wondered — how  long 
before  he,  too,  would  be  a  ravenous  beast  contending  for 
a  crust  in  the  offal  of  that  prison-yard  ? 

Yet  pride  did  sustain  him  throughout  a  ruthless  day. 
When,  famished  and  faint,  he  sank  upon  his  loathsome 
straw,  he  lay  again  with  eyes  that  would  not  close,  his 
brain  in  a  feverish  confusion,  a  pain  at  the  base  of  it 
so  acute  that  it  seemed  unbearable.  Hour  upon  hour 
he  tossed,  now  hot,  now  clammy  cold,  yet  sure  that  he 
was  slowly  going  mad.  Every  nerve  in  his  ill-nour 
ished  body  twitched;  his  head  burned  like  a  raging  fire 
that  surely  must  consume  it  ere  the  morning  come. 
Gazing  into  the  depths  of  the  night,  he  cared  not 
whether  he  lived  or  died,  so  only  he  might  sleep  un- 
haunted  by  misery  and  hunger. 

The  light  of  another  day  shed  no  ray  of  hope  upon 
him;  yet  he  found  himself  less  friendless  than  he  had 
thought,  for,  when  the  sun  rose  once  more  above  the 


THE   AWAKENING  323 

harsh  battlements,  it  was  Friday,  the  day  of  "  the  prison 
ers'  pot,"  when  the  wardens  of  the  churches  brought 
charitable  gifts,  and  friends  of  the  miserable  inmates 
came  to  comfort  them.  Among  those  who  stood  at  the 
gate  was  Madeleine;  and  when  her  turn  came  to  be  ad 
mitted,  she  in  the  hurried  moment  given  her,  pressed  a 
gold  pistole  into  Moliere's  hand,  turning  away  her 
glance  lest  he  ask  her  whence  it  came.  For  it,  she  had 
pawned  a  dress — her  last,  save  the  one  on  her  back. 
Yet  he  was  too  dazed  with  the  joy  the  sight  of  her  had 
brought  to  ask  aught  but  a  fond  word. 

This  she  withheld,  though  it  cost  her  a  bitter  pang. 
"  Ask  it  not,"  she  said.  "  Remember  we  are  but  com 
rades  now — or  shall  I  say  dear  friends  who  have  suf 
fered  deeply  together?  " 

He,  understanding,  bowed  his  head. 

"  Do  not  despair,  my  lad,"  she  continued,  a  look  of 
sympathy  in  her  frank  eyes  to  gladden  him.  "  Do  not 
despair.  A  way  to  free  you  will  be  found;  that  I 
promise." 

When  she  was  gone,  he  turned  to  the  noxious  sights 
about  him,  yet  seeing  only  her  with  the  sunlight  glinting 
the  red-gold  hair  that  crowned  her  lovely  head.  No 
longer  was  he  friendless,  for  she  had  come  to  cheer  him 
with  her  promise  that  a  way  to  free  him  should  be 
found,  come  with  the  wistful  light  of  her  eyes  to  fill  his 
heart  with  confidence.  Had  her  love  for  him  been  dead, 
he  knew  that  she  would  not  have  come.  He  had  been  a 
sorry  traitor  to  her,  yet  she  had  forgiven  him.  The 
tenderness  of  her  glance  told  him  that,  even  though  her 
lips  had  refused  the  pardon  he  sorely  craved.  Thus,  in 
the  joy  her  coming  had  brought,  he  forgot  his  hunger 
and  misery. 


FAME'S   PATHWAY 

He  clutched  it  tightly — the  pistole  she  had  given  him 
— lest  the  starving  should  wrench  it  from  his  grasp; 
but  they,  besotted  in  their  own  distress,  thought  not  of 
him  nor  his  windfall.  Left  free  to  seek  his  gaolers,  he 
purchased  food  of  them,  and  the  privacy  of  a  cell. 
When  he  had  devoured  the  coarse  fare  they  brought,  he 
threw  himself  upon  his  pallet  to  lie  there  in  a  dull 
stupor,  too  weary  to  think  or  even  to  dream. 

The  cracks  in  the  pavement  of  his  cell,  the  iron  bars 
in  his  window,  the  chinks  in  the  wall  where  stone  met 
stone,  absorbed  his  tired  mind  throughout  that  day  with 
a  dreamy  kind  of  interest;  for,  although  at  the  bottom 
of  his  thought  there  was  a  consciousness  that  he  was 
still  a  prisoner  and  this  dreary  place  his  cell,  it  was  the 
consciousness  of  fatigue,  the  vague  perception  of  a 
weary  soul — a  shapeless  phantom  permeating  his 
thoughts  yet  seeming  to  have  no  real  existence  there. 
Freed  from  that  compound  with  its  vermin  and  stenches, 
freed  from  the  vile  companionship  of  criminals,  his  im 
prisonment  was  robbed  of  its  gall,  his  cell  become  a 
place  wherein  to  repose  his  weary  mind  and  nerves,  till 
Madeleine's  promise  of  freedom  was  fulfilled. 

That  night  he  slept  soundly.  When  he  awoke,  it  was 
to  feel  more  refreshed  than  for  many  a  day.  His 
waking  agony  did  not  return.  It  was  pleasant  to  lie 
there  undisturbed  and  with  hunger  no  longer  daunting 
him,  pleasant  to  rest  hour  upon  hour  without  hindrance 
or  interruption,  even  though  the  resting  place  were  a 
gaol.  During  the  two  years  that  had  passed  since  he 
left  his  father's  roof,  not  once  had  he  been  free  from 
overweening  ambition,  free  to  commune  with  himself  or 
take  count  of  his  blunders.  Viewing  those  years  in 
calmness,  he  saw  that  they  had  led  to  nought.  Valiantly 


THE    AWAKENING  325 

had  he  striven  for  his  ideals.  The  fruits  had  been  hisses 
and  persecution  and  now  the  prison  bars. 

"Why,"  he  asked  himself,  "  has  success  passed  me 
by  ?  "  The  answer  came  from  the  depths  of  a  heart 
made  wise  by  experience.  "  Because  I  would  not  rant 
like  Montfleury.  Yet  it  is  cruelly  unjust;  for  if  the 
theatre  must  ever  be  gauged  by  its  dullest  patrons,  it  is 
accursed.  The  successful  actor  is  either  a  low  buffoon 
or  a  striding  rodomontadist.  Better  the  buffoon,  for  he, 
at  least,  may  portray  human  nature." 

Upon  the  blank  walls  of  his  cell  his  turbulent  life 
became  reflected  phantasmagorially.  Never  before 
had  he  known  himself,  for  his  belief  in  self  had  blinded 
him  to  the  errors  that  led  him  step  by  step  to  this 
cheerless  spot.  What  a  consequential,  headstrong  sham 
had  he  been — how  futile  were  his  dreams!  Nay,  there 
was  no  denying  the  impeachment;  for  he  saw  himself 
an  opinionated  schoolboy  trounced  by  the  whipping  mas 
ter  because  he  had  averred  Horace  and  Ovid  to  be  more 
human  than  Virgil;  saw  himself,  too,  an  idle  apprentice 
eyeing  his  father's  customers — the  capricious  ladies  of 
rank,  the  bourgeoises  who  aped  court  manners,  the  fops, 
the  sordid  burghers,  and  the  rascally  valets. 

As  a  student  he  had  revered  Epicurus,  yet  never  had 
he  been  less  contented  than  as  that  philosopher's  riotous 
votary.  Alack!  what  nights  of  revelry  he  had  passed 
in  those  tavern  days.  Still,  he  had  not  become  a  drunk 
ard  like  Chapelle.  "  Ah,  what  a  mean,  pragmatical 
thought !  "  the  honesty  of  his  heart  cried  out.  "  Poor, 
generous  Chapelle,  undone  by  love  of  comradeship,  he 
languishes,  too,  in  a  prison  cell  with  no  more  to  show 
for  his  life  than  I  for  mine.  Yet  he  tried  to  restrain 
me  from  my  folly,  for,  while  dear  Madeleine  stood 


FAME'S   PATHWAY 

slender  and  beautiful  against  a  painted  scene,  he 
whispered,  '  Come ;  you  are  not  cast  to  play  the  fool.' " 

A  fool  he  had  been,  bent  upon  winning  plaudits  for  a 
genius  he  did  not  possess.  To  blur  a  cruel  vision  of  a 
surging  pit  with  its  insolent  rabble,  he  turned  his  face 
to  the  wall;  but  while  he  despaired  and  the  echo  of 
hisses  rang  in  his  ears,  he  saw  about  him  the  burghers 
of  Poissy  laughing  till  the  rafters  of  a  tap-room 
trembled. 

"  Then  was  my  triumph,"  he  sighed,  "  ignoble  though 
it  was.  That  little  farce  was  mine;  its  pedant,  my  old 
teacher  as  near  to  life  as  I  could  simulate  him.  Yet  I 
am  no  jack-pudding." 

"  A  goat  must  browse  where  he  is  tethered,"  came  the 
scoffing  answer  of  the  merry  hostess  of  the  Golden  Sun, 
her  plump  arms  akimbo,  her  white  teeth  glistening.  He 
shuddered,  for  he  .heard  Corneille,  the  Master,  saying: 
"  The  aims  of  the  stage  should  be  lofty ;  its  honours 
sought  by  the  noblest.  Comedy  is  trivial,  farce  is 
vulgar." 

Somehow  these  words  had  lost  their  authority.  Too 
academic  they  seemed,  too  uncompromising.  '  Trivial ' 
to  lighten  the  cares  of  the  world  with  laughter ! " 
he  cried  in  sudden  revolt.  '  Trivial '  to  strip 
the  libertines  and  hypocrites  and  hold  them  up  to 
public  scorn!  Ah,  can  a  man  do  any  finer  work  than 
attack  the  vices  of  his  time,  even  though  the  weapon  be 
mere  ridicule?  Let  Corneille  fight  with  Melpomene's 
sword,  for  it  is  his  weapon.  If  mine  be  the  humble 
shepherd's  staff  of  Thalia,  I  shall  not  be  too  proud  to 
wield  it.  Heaven  has  given  me  a  comic  mask,  they 
say.  I  have  hidden  it  beneath  a  fool's  cap !  " 

In  misery  he  was  learning  the  lesson  honest  Made- 


THE    AWAKENING  327 

leine  had  striven  long  to  teach.  A  wretched  debtor  in 
gaol,  he  saw  that  heavy  trials  may  become  the  stepping 
stones  to  greatness;  only  now,  within  those  prison  walls, 
had  he  begun  to  realise  his  limitations  and  his  weakness. 
A  new  hope  inspired  him,  yet  was  he  shamed  at  the 
thought  of  Trinette  and  the  part  her  witchery  had  made 
him  play — shamed  because  the  echo  of  Madeleine's 
sweet  voice  was  ringing  in  his  ears.  "  Protest  not  too 
much  with  those  eyes  of  thine,"  he  heard  her  say,  "  for 
they  were  made  to  burn  with  jealousy  and  insatiable 
longing." 


CHAPTER  XII 

THE  SIN  OF  YOUTH 

MADELEINE'S  task  was  made  arduous  by  the  duplicity  of 
Pommier  the  usurer,  Fausser  and  Dubourg  being  his 
stool-pigeons.  Moliere  had  been  imprisoned  upon  the 
chandler's  warrant  alone,  for  the  draper,  although  abet 
ting  the  arrest,  was  holding  his  claim  in  abeyance  until 
Pommier  should  have  garnered  the  equity  of  Marie 
Herve's  house.  Unaware  of  this  knavery,  Madeleine, 
with  the  aid  of  a  lawyer  who  dwelt  near  her  in  the  rue 
des  Jardins,  attacked  Fausser's  small  judgment  so  suc 
cessfully  that  the  civil  lieutenant  ordered  Moliere's 
release. 

Alarmed  at  this  turn  of  affairs,  Pommier  threw  aside 
his  mask.  His  own  claim  being  considerable,  the  prison 
doors  were  ordered  closed  ere  they  had  opened,  should  a 
bondsman  not  be  found  willing  to  assure  a  weekly  pay 
ment  of  forty  livres  during  a  period  of  two  months. 

"  Alas !  "  sighed  Madeleine,  "  so  generous  a  bondsman 
is  not  to  be  had,  for  it  is  clear  that  the  livres  must  come 
from  his  pocket." 

Walking  beside  her  as  she  left  the  court  room,  Cath 
erine  Bourgeois  took  her  hand.  "  Dear  Madeleine," 
she  whispered,  "  I  have  received  a  small  inheritance. 
Germain  Rabel  and  I  were  to  be  married,  yet  willingly 
will  I  postpone  my  happiness  in  order  that  Moliere  may 
be  freed." 

328 


THE    SIN    OF   YOUTH 

"  No,  my  loyal  friend/'  said  Madeleine ;  "  I  cannot 
accept  this  boon!  Ah,  leave  the  stage  before  it  is  too 
late — you  and  Rabel  together !  " 

"  Leave  the  stage ! "  said  the  other  in  astonishment. 
"  Surely  you  would  not  be  content  in  any  other  lif e !  " 

Madeleine's  eyes  roamed  wistfully.  "  Ah,  my  dear, 
our  happiness  is  as  fleeting  as  the  praise  we  live  for. 
Only  in  the  wild  moments  of  applause  may  we  forget 
that  we  are  vagabonds." 

"  Yet  you  love  Moliere,"  said  the  girl. 

"  Yes,  Catherine  Bourgeois,  in  spite  of  myself." 

The  younger  actress  understood,  and  said  no  more 
until  they  had  reached  the  street.  "  There  is  something 
you  should  know,"  she  faltered  then. 

"  Trinette !  "  said  Madeleine.  Her  voice  trembled 
and  so  did  she. 

"  Yes,"  answered  the  girl ;  "  she  has  spread  that 
scandalous  lie  far  and  wide." 

"  Were  I  to  deny  it,"  Madeleine  answered  resolutely, 
"  all  Paris  would  believe  her.  Scandal  travels  with  a 
vulture's  wings." 

"  Perchance  you  are  right,  for  her  lies  were  but 
Parthian  arrows — a  farewell  bolt  to  harass  you.  Mon 
sieur  de  Guise  has  sighed  for  her  again.  She  has  gone 
to  the  trenches  at  Mardyck.  I  saw  her  speeding  toward 
the  Temple  Gate  in  a  sumptuous  coach." 

Madeleine  said  nothing.  She  was  thinking  of  the 
time  when  she  had  tramped  to  Renard's  Garden.  She 
would  go  on  another  merciful  errand,  she  vowed,  but  not 
to  the  trenches  at  Mardyck.  Never  should  the  Baron 
de  Modene  see  her  in  the  dust  again.  "  Come,  Cath 
erine  Bourgeois,"  she  cried,  hope  shining  in  her  loyal 
eyes ;  "  once  more  I  have  need  of  you !  "  She  had 


330  FAME'S   PATHWAY 

thought  of  Aubry,  the  pavier,  and  straightway  she  went 
with  the  girl  to  his  house  in  the  rue  Champ-Fleury. 

"  Had  I  ever  need  of  a  friend/'  she  said  to  him,  "  you 
told  me  I  was  to  come  to  you." 

"  Confide  in  me,"  he  answered  benignly.  When  he 
learned  of  the  civil  lieutenant's  decree,  he  picked  up  his 
broad-brimmed  hat.  "  I  will  sign  the  bond/'  he  as 
sured  her. 

"Oh,  I  am  so  grateful!  How  can  I  thank  you?" 
murmured  Madeleirre,  through  the  mist  of  happy  tears. 

"  We  have  no  time  to  bandy  words,"  said  the  pavier, 
though  he  found  time  to  kiss  her — paternally,  as  Cath 
erine  Bourgeois  saw. 

No  sooner  had  the  bond  been  signed,  than  Dubourg, 
the  draper,  played  the  role  assigned  him  by  Pommier. 
Again  were  the  prison  doors  ordered  closed.  Dis 
heartened  by  this  new  development,  Madeleine  turned 
to  the  pavier.  "  I  must  plead  for  another  favour ! " 
she  said. 

There  was  a  limit  even  to  this  good  man's  generosity. 
"  Pardi,"  thought  he,  "  a  debtor's  gaol  will  claim  me  too, 
an  I  call  not  a  halt !  " 

Madeleine  divined  his  qualms.  "  It  is  not  more  money 
that  I  ask.  The  one  in  all  Paris  who  should  aid  Mo- 
liere  is  Jean  Poquelin,  his  father.  I  fear  me  his  door 
will  not  be  opened  to  me.  You  are  his  friend — will  you 
not  accompany  me  ?  " 

"  Diantre !  "  answered  the  pavier,  relieved  to  learn 
the  boon  she  asked  was  so  slight,  "  the  old  hunks  can  do 
no  more  than  show  us  the  door ! " 

Leaving  Catherine  Bourgeois  to  wonder  at  their 
temerity,  and  the  lawyer  to  draw  a  new  petition,  they 
went  to  the  upholstery  shop  in  the  arcades  of  the  market- 


THE    SIN    OF   YOUTH 

place.  His  beak-like  nose  travelling  up  and  down  the 
columns  of  a  ledger  in  harmony  with  the  movements  of 
a  skinny  finger,  Jean  Poquelin,  bent  and  wrinkled, 
stood  with  a  quill  behind  his  ear,  adding  the  figures  that 
were  as  the  breath  of  his  nostrils.  His  son  was  dusting 
bolts  of  taffeta;  his  yawning  daughters  were  knitting 
listlessly.  Upon  Aubry  and  Madeleine,  the  upholsterer 
frowned  over  the  rims  of  his  horn-bowed  spectacles; 
more  urbane  than  her  master,  a  cat  that  sat  licking  her 
sleek  coat  in  the  window  mewed — the  only  sign  of 
friendliness  the  new-comers  received. 

"  Friend  Poquelin,'"  said  the  pavier,  without  any 
pother,  "  this  lady  is  Madeleine  Bej  art." 

"  This  baggage !  "  growled  the  upholsterer,  eyeing 
her  savagely. 

"  Nay,  my  friend,  she  is  a  good  girl,  as  I  can  vouch. 
Her  errand  is  to  plead  for  your  son,  that  scrimp  Pom- 
mier  having  gaoled  him  in  the  Grand  Chatelet." 

"  A  place  likely  to  cool  his  hot  head,"  said  Poquelin, 
slamming  his  musty  ledger.  "  Out,  both  of  you !  A 
trollop  in  my  shop  will  injure  custom! " 

Madeleine  shivered  but  stood  her  ground.  "  Ah,  mon 
sieur,  for  a  paltry  debt,  will  you  let  your  son  languish 
in  a  loathsome  gaol  ?  " 

"  He  has  dragged  my  name  through  the  gutters  of 
Paris ! "  snarled  the  father.  "  Gaol  is  the  place  for 
him !  Let  him  rot  there !  " 

Her  pleading  eyes  met  his  stony  pair,  nevertheless 
she  persevered,  "  He  could  not  be  a  shopkeeper,  mon 
sieur;  he  was  born  with  a  poet's  heart." 

Going  up  to  her  quickly  and  pushing  her  toward  the 
door,  the  upholsterer  cut  short  her  words.  "  Out  of  my 
shop,  thou  doxy !  Did  I  not  tell  thee  to  begone " 


333  FAME'S    PATHWAY 

Aubry  laid  a  hand  on  his  shoulder.  "  Hold  thy  wrath, 
friend  Poquelin,"  he  said.  "  Perchance  this  matter  may 
be  accommodated."  On  the  way  thither,  he  had  learned 
from  Madeleine  that  six  hundred  and  thirty  livres  was 
the  sum  total  Moliere  had  received  from  his  mother's 
estate.  Now  the  gossip  of  the  town  had  held  this  lady 
to  be  rich;  and  putting  two  and  two  together,  it  seemed 
to  him  that  Poquelin  might  not  relish  an  accounting. 
"  Your  son  Jean-Baptiste  is  in  gaol/'  he  continued, 
"  and  I  mean  to  have  him  out.  It  will  cost  me  a  pretty 
penny,  but  thereby  I  become  his  creditor.  He  had,  as  I 
understand,  a  legacy." 

Through  the  corner  of  an  eye,  Aubry  saw  the  up 
holsterer  shift  his  feet. 

"  Now  if  he  were  freed,  and  with  this  girl,  were  to 
betake  himself  out  of  Paris,"  said  the  father,  clearing 
his  throat,  "  to  save  an  honourable  name  from  further 
disgrace,  I  might  scrape  together  a  moderate  sum; 
though  business  is  slack,  I  vow." 

Aubry  addressed  Madeleine.     "  This  proffer  concerns 

you." 

"I  accept  it,"  she  answered,  though  distrustful  of 
her  ability  to  fulfil  her  part. 

"  Summon  a  notary,"  said  the  pavier. 

"  Not  so  fast,  friend  Aubry,"  shrugged  the  uphol 
sterer.  "  Once  my  son  is  out  of  Paris,  I  will  reimburse 
you,  yet  nought  will  I  place  in  writing  lest  there  be  some 
trickery." 

Convinced  that,  rather  than  permit  an  investigation  of 
his  executorship,  the  upholsterer  would  keep  his  word, 
Aubry  accepted  this  oral  assurance  with  a  threatening 
rejoinder:  "I  shall  fulfil  my  part  of  the  agreement. 
If  you  fail  in  yours,  I  shall  resort  to  the  law." 


533 

"  I  am  a  man  of  my  word/'  said  Poquelin,  wincing. 

The  pavier  took  Madeleine's  hand.  "  Let  us  be  off/' 
said  he.  "  The  old  curmudgeon ! "  he  added  when  the 
door  had  closed.  "  He  has  defrauded  the  lad  of  a  part 
of  his  inheritance — the  major  part,  I'll  warrant." 

"  It  is  as  well,"  Madeleine  answered  sorrowfully, 
"  for  he  would  have  squandered  it."  Yet  she  took  heart 
at  the  prospect  of  his  release — a  matter  of  speedy  ac 
complishment,  for  when  the  court  reconvened,  he  was 
ordered  discharged  on  his  own  recognisances.  When 
his  prison  doors  opened,  she  was  there  to  greet  him. 
The  moment,  though  joyous,  was  full  of  trepidation, 
she  being  in  honour  bound  to  persuade  him  to  leave 
Paris :  a  difficult  task,  she  feared,  though  she  knew  it  to 
be  for  his  good.  Content,  however,  in  the  knowledge 
that  Trinette  had  already  gone,  she  bided  a  favourable 
moment  to  further  this  design. 

As  she  kept  her  own  counsel,  he  attributed  her  reti 
cence  to  distrust,  feeling  it  to  be  well  merited;  so  the 
joy  of  his  freedom  was  tempered  by  contrition.  More 
over,  he  could  not  dispel  from  his  mind  the  vision  of  the 
Chatelet  with  its  horde  of  wan  prisoners  fighting  for 
crusts  in  its  filth.  He  felt  he  had  grown  older  by  a 
score  of  years,  yet  he  did  not  indulge  in  self-pity. 
"  What  right  have  I  to  complain,"  he  asked  himself, 
"  while  there  are  starving  wretches  in  the  world — I  who 
have  but  to  seek  a  more  lucrative  calling  than  tragedy?  " 
The  very  word  made  him  shudder ;  no  longer  did  it  spell 
histrionic  glory  to  him.  "  Of  real  catastrophes  there 
are  enough,"  he  sighed ;  "  none  need  be  feigned.  Life 
itself  is  a  tragedy  to  those  who  may  not  laugh." 

The  forgiveness  he  yearned  for,  Madeleine  withheld. 
His  place  by  her  side  she  denied  him,  and  until  her  eyes 


534 

should  lighten  with  grace,  he  dared  not  ask  it.  Mean 
while,  she  evinced  toward  him  a  gentleness  that  passed 
in  his  heart  for  friendship,  though  in  her  own  it  was 
fond  love,  restrained  by  a  fear  that,  if  her  pardon  were 
too  precipitately  given,  it  might  prove  of  little  value, 
so  young  was  he,  so  unused  to  the  bearing  of  life's 
burden. 

When  he  tried  to  express  his  gratitude  to  her  for 
effecting  his  release,  she  hushed  him  by  telling  him  to 
thank  good  Monsieur  Aubrey,  whose  offices  had  freed  him. 
Regarding  her  interview  with  Jean  Poquelin,  she  swore 
the  pavier  to  secrecy.  "  Let  Moliere  think,"  said  she, 
"  that  you  alone  have  compassed  his  release." 

Of  the  future  the  lad  said  nothing;  yet  far  from 
planning  the  new  campaign  of  tragedy  she  feared,  he 
was  seeking  a  way  to  regain  her  confidence.  The  very 
ardour  of  the  quest  made  him  taciturn,  the  love  that 
rose  to  his  lips  being  stilled  by  the  knowledge  that  he 
had  lost  the  right  to  voice  it. 

To  make  him  realise  the  hopelessness  of  further  ef 
fort  in  the  capital  was  her  concern.  "  Let  the  pavier 
require  indemnity  for  the  bond  he  has  given,"  thought 
she ;  "  let  every  comrade  sign  it.  For  the  payment  of 
this  debt  of  honour  incurred  in  his  behalf,  Moliere  will 
hold  himself  responsible.  Without  credit  and  without 
means,  even  he  must  see  that  in  the  provinces  lies  the 
only  chance  of  requital." 

In  pursuance  of  this  design,  she  plotted  with  Aubry, 
then  called  the  company  together  in  the  Black  Cross 
Tennis-Court,  all  except  Moliere  having  been  told  that 
Poquelin  the  upholsterer,  and  not  they,  would  be  called 
upon  to  repay  the  pavier.  Two  notaries  were  present, 
the  bond  ready  for  signing.  When  it  had  been  read, 


THE    SIN    OF   YOUTH  335 

Moliere  averred  that,  having  been  freed  from  gaol,  he 
alone  should  assume  the  obligation. 

Regardless  of  this  protest,  Madeleine  signed  the 
document.  Catherine  Bourgeois  followed  with  alacrity, 
GenevieVe  Be j  art  with  less  haste.  Grinning  at  the 
thought  that  the  upholsterer  was  to  be  mulcted,  sallow 
Bejart  then  stepped  forth  to  write  his  name  with  more 
celerity  than  he  could  have  spoken  it. 

"  Let  me  not  be  the  last  to  sign,"  said  Moliere,  seizing 
the  pen. 

The  names  of  Rabel  and  Clerin  completed  the  roster 
of  the  shattered  company — seven  players  still  loyal  to 
the  dying  cause. 

The  document  having  been  signed  by  Aubry,  the 
actors  went  their  several  ways.  When  all  except  Mad 
eleine  had  gone,  Moliere  sank  upon  a  chair,  burying  his 
dejected  face  in  feverish  hands.  No  words  of  hers 
were  needed  to  make  him  realise  that  the  knell  of  the 
Illustrious  Theatre  had  been  rung. 

She,  wishing  to  lighten  his  anguish,  said  gently,  "  We 
have  done  everything  that  can  be  done." 

"  Except  to  begin  again,"  he  sighed. 

"  In  Paris  ?  "  she  asked,  with  fear  in  her  voice. 

He  did  not  answer,  but  leaving  his  seat,  paced  the 
floor  silently,  his  head  upon  his  breast.  Suddenly  he 
stopped  before  her.  "  You  told  me  of  an  actor  named 
Dufresne — an  old  comrade  who  wished  you  to  join  his 
company." 

"  Yes,"  she  replied,  a  tremor  of  hope  within  her. 
"  He  has  gone  to  Bordeaux  in  the  service  of  the  Due 
d'fipernon." 

He  was  trembling  now.  His  eyes  imploring  her,  he 
said:  "  Go  to  him,  Madeleine,  for  Paris  will  have  none 


336 

of  us."  A  moment  later  he  added,  in  a  tone  of  bitter 
ness,  "  Perchance  Bary  the  quack  will  have  me  among 
his  buffoons." 

Feelings  that  lay  beneath  the  long  conflict  she  had 
waged — feelings  that  were  her  deepest  self — arose  to 
tell  her  that  victory  had  been  won.  Her  eyes  brimmed. 
She  held  out  a  hand  till  it  touched  his  shoulder. 
"  Moliere  dear/'  she  said,  her  heart  beating  joyfully, 
"  your  way  and  mine  lie  together." 

His  hand  caught  hers  and  pressed  it  to  his  lips;  he 
dropped  on  a  knee  beside  her.  "  Oh,  I  am  so  ashamed, 
ashamed !  "  he  murmured.  "  I  have  been  so  perverse !  " 

Madeleine  laughed  in  a  low,  thrilled  tone.  "  You 
have  been  so  young,"  she  said.  "  That  is  your  sin, 
Moliere." 


CHAPTER  XIII 

THE   WAY  IS  LONG 

UPON  a  morning  devised  by  fate,  they  tramped  the  high 
road  toward  the  west — humble  Moliere  and  the  patient 
girl  whose  love  for  him  had  never  wavered.  In  a 
peasant's  cart  rode  Marie  Herve  and  her  daughter 
Genevieve.  Little  Armande  prattled  in  her  mother's 
arms;  with  adolescent  cruelty,  young  Louis  Bejart 
goaded  the  hobbling  horse — a  joyous  boy,  glad  to  be 
upon  the  king's  highway.  In  advance  of  this  lowly  car 
avan,  Joseph,  the  stutterer,  marched  alert,  his  arquebuse 
upon  his  shoulder. 

Hateful  Paris  leagues  behind  her,  Madeleine  was 
fairly  happy.  With  lightness  in  her  step,  she  tramped 
— a  tall,  pliant  girl,  radiant  and  free-moving.  Beside 
her  walked  Moliere,  the  glint  of  resolution  in  his  eyes, 
courage  in  his  heart. 

Up  the  broad  valley,  over  fields  and  forests  and  the 
dark-running  Seine,  came  a  breeze  to  cool  them — a  wel 
come  boon,  for  the  sun  shone  hot,  and  a  thunder-storm 
had  left  the  steep  road  boggy.  The  earth  oozed  water 
where  they  trod,  and  the  cart  was  near  to  being  mired 
more  than  once,  on  its  way  to  the  table-land  where 
stood  the  old  chateau  of  St.  Germain  and  the  chateau 
neuf.  Upon  the  hilltop,  the  reeking  horse  stopped  to 
pant  and  stretch  his  skinny  neck  for  water.  On  a  bank 
of  moss,  Madeleine  and  Moliere  sank  wearily,  Bejart 
urging  them  on  in  vain. 

337 


338  FAME'S    PATHWAY 

Down  a  gully  beside  them  rushed  a  newly  swollen 
stream.  The  girl  took  off  her  shoes  and  stockings  and 
cooled  her  feet  in  the  water  and  on  the  grass,  then  bared 
her  arms  to  the  elbow  and  plunged  them  in  the  refresh 
ing  current.  Moliere  picked  a  knot  of  wild  flowers  for 
her  breast.  Not  an  element  of  her  charm  escaped  him, 
neither  of  glowing  cheek,  gold-tinged  hair,  of  curling 
lashes,  gentle  eyes;  for  to  him  she  was  beautiful,  and 
he  felt  that  he  owed  her  an  unrequitable  debt.  The 
knowledge  made  him  remorseful,  and  like  a  penitent,  he 
hung  his  head,  the  words  of  love  he  longed  to  speak 
dying  on  his  lips. 

His  eyes  wandered  over  the  valley  below.  The  roll 
ing  hills  were  vividly  green,  the  lowlands  hazy  in  a  veil 
of  mist — on  far-off  Montmartre,  the  sails  of  windmills 
moved  sluggishly  beneath  the  blue  dome  of  heaven.  He 
thought  of  a  day  long  gone  when,  alone  of  a  weary 
company,  he  had  gazed  at  those  windmills  turning 
against  an  azure  sky — a  day  when  his  enterprise  was 
bright  as  the  sun  overhead.  Again  the  bells  pealed  far 
the  noonday  Angelus,  and  again  was  the  fair  girl  beside 
him  adorable,  but  of  the  light-hearted  company  that  had 
slept  upon  the  roadside  then,  only  the  Bejarts  remained. 
Once  more  there  was  no  turning  back,  even  had  he  the 
mind  to,  for  Paris  had  spurned  him  cruelly  and  only 
the  high  road,  with  its  granges  and  tap-rooms,  offered 
hope  for  the  future. 

No  longer  was  he  Moliere  the  player,  whose  watch 
word  was  eternal  joy,  but  Moliere  the  vagabond.  "  In 
human  Paris !  "  he  thought,  "  city  of  greedy  usurers !  " 
Yet  he  loved  her,  cruel  and  purse-proud,  because  he 
was  Paris-born.  He  had  learned  many  lessons  since 
he  had  wandered  through  her  streets  with  bantering 


THE   WAY   IS   LONG  339 

Chapelle,  not  the  least  being  that  the  best  preparation 
for  great  deeds  is  the  ability  to  do  little  things  well. 

A  bevy  of  flowers — rose,  violet,  white — danced  in  the 
breezes  on  slender  stalks — a  sunburst  of  colour,  and 
Madeleine  caught  her  breath  in  delight.  She  turned 
him  a  radiant  face.  "  Ah,  Moliere,"  she  cried,  "  let  us 
think  no  more  of  disappointment  and  failure !  Paris 
lies  hidden  behind  yonder  Mont  Valerien,  and  with  her, 
the  cruel  past.  The  storm  has  burst,  the  clouds  have 
rolled  away.  See,  the  sun  shines  brightly  now — a 
presage  of  the  future !  " 

"If  you  have  forgiven  me,  dear,"  he  said,  and  took 
her  hand,  "  I  can  face  the  future  without  a  fear,  with 
out  a  regret." 

"  Without  a  regret ! "  she  repeated,  doubtfully 
askance,  caressing  the  flowers  beside  her. 

He  understood.  "  Nay,  Madeleine,  I  spoke  hastily. 
Our  love  can  never  be  quite  the  same." 

She  started  visibly  at  his  words,  for  they  had  recalled 
to  her  a  phase  of  him  that  made  the  colour  fly  from  her 
cheeks.  "  Not  quite,"  she  repeated  slowly,  "  for  our 
happiness  must  be  built  anew  with  comradeship  for  its 
foundation,  patient  and  forbearing  and  without  distrust." 

Her  hand  was  still  his  prisoner,  and  he  pressed  it 
to  his  lips.  "  Yes,  Madeleine ;  without  distrust.  I 
promise." 

She  looked  at  him  now  as  though  she  had  belief  in 
him.  "  Ah,  keep  that  promise,  dear,"  she  murmured, 
"  for  love  has  such  a  fragile  life.  When  confidence  is 
gone,  love  dies." 

She  trembled  in  his  arms  when  he  took  her  there,  and 
hid  her  face  on  his  breast.  When  he  kissed  her  fragrant 
hair,  she  nestled  more  deeply  into  her  content. 


340  FAME'S    PATHWAY 

"  To  taste  true  happiness/'  he  whispered,  full  of  hope 
and  confidence,  "  this  tenderness  for  one  another  may  we 
guard  for  ever ! " 

"  For  ever ! "  she  repeated,  thrilled  by  this  assurance 
of  his  love.  But  when  her  brother  ordered  the  forward 
march,  and  the  peasant's  cart  rolled  on,  the  clouds  that 
had  become  so  rosy  were  tinged  with  darkness  for  a 
moment  by  the  kiss  her  sister  Armande  threw  with 
her  chubby  hand  to  Moliere — by  the  smile  that  light 
ened  his  sombre  face.  Yet  to  doubt  whether  his  love 
would  ever  fail  again  seemed  a  sacrilege.  When  he 
took  her  hand,  the  clouds  became  rosy  once  more  and 
golden-hued. 

"  To-night  we  will  play  '  The  Jealousy  of  Smutty- 
Face/  "  he  cried,  his  eyes  alight  with  ardour,  "  play  it 
at  Poissy  in  the  tap-room  of  the  Golden  Sun,  then  on 
to  the  south  and  Bordeaux.  Remember,  I  insisted  on  this 
longer  route.  I  wished  to  see  once  more  those  red- 
faced  burghers  moved  to  merriment — to  hear  the  rafters 
shake  to  their  laughter.  No  more  tragedy,  my  darling, 
• — life  has  tragedy  enough — our  task  shall  be  to  lighten 
its  gloom." 

Her  smiling  face,  her  throbbing  heart  were  joys  of 
his  making.  Exulting  in  the  victory  she  had  won,  she 
encouraged  him  with  word  and  look.  "  That  little  farce 
was  true,  Moliere.  Let  it  be  a  stepping-stone." 

"  Only  a  stepping-stone,"  he  answered,  "  for  I  have 
learned  the  truth  of  your  words :  '  Success  comes 
through  never  despairing  and  always  striving ! ' ' 

Yet  while  he  spoke  with  a  voice  full  of  courage,  his 
dark  eyes  roved  sadly  toward  the  far-off  windmills  on 
Montmartre.  He  was  yearning  for  vainglorious  Paris, 
for  her  pleasures  and  even  her  sorrows.  He  could  see 


THE   WAY   IS    LONG  341 

the  flashing  eye  and  quick-rising  breast  of  Trinette, 
see,  too,  the  sinister  face  of  Modene.  For  a  tremulous 
moment,  his  heart  surged  with  jealousy  and  hate,  ere 
the  echo  of  hisses  arose  to  shame  him.  Cowardice  had 
called  him  a  derelict  to  be  pitied ;  courage,  a  purblind  fool 
to  be  chastened.  Closing  his  lips  firmly,  he  turned  to 
the  west.  Hand  in  hand  with  constant  Madeleine,  he 
tramped  behind  the  creaking  cart  where  winsome 
Armande  Bejart  sat  watching  him  with  tantalising  baby 
eyes. 

"  Ah,  but  the  way  is  long,"  he  sighed,  "  from  the 
purpose  to  the  goal !  " 

Resolutely  he  had  chosen  the  stony  pathway  toward 
fame.  Above  the  pestilent  mist  in  the  valley  where  he 
was  trudging  so  wearily,  he  saw  her  proud  temple  shin 
ing  afar. 


THE    END 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 

Los  Angeles 
This  book  is  DUE  on  the  last  date  stamped  below. 


ECE  f 

AIN  LOAN 


OCT    519 


ED 

)ESK 


P.M. 

3141516 


,9-42rn^8,'49(B5573)444 


UC  SOUTHERN  REGIONAL  LIBRARY  FACILITY 


A     000  930  865     1 


